:    v:J;  f    OF 
NATURE 

EDITED    BY 


SONGS   OF  NATURE 


JOHN    BURROUGHS 


SONGS 

OF  NATURE 


Edited    y  JQHty  BURROUGHS 


GARDEN  CITY 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Co. 


Copyright,  igoi,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  & 


INTRODUCTION 

By  John  Burroughs 


331098 


IN  compiling  this  anthology  of 
Nature  poetry  I  have  been  guid- 
ed entirely  by  my  own  taste  in 
such  matters  ;  I  have  here  gath- 
ered together  such  poems  as  I 
myself  prefer  amid  the  material 
at  my  disposal,  tfhis  is  accord- 
ing to  the  wishes  of  the  publishers,  who  desired  that 
the  collection  should  be  mine  in  a  real  sense,  and 
thus  carry  with  it  such  savor  of  originality  as 
one  marts  preferences  may  give  to  such  a  work. 
1  trust  I  have  not  carried  my  personal  likings  too 
far,  or  to  the  point  of  giving  expression  to  any 
mere  eccentricities  of  taste  in  my  selections,  fo 
make  the  work  individual  and  yet  of  a  high  aver- 
age of  excellence  has  been  my  hope. 

In  such  matters  it  all  comes  back  after  all  to 
one's  likes  or  dislikes.  One  may  think  he  is  try- 
ing the  poem  by  the  standard  of  the  best  that  has 
been  done  in  this  line  while  he  is  only  trying  it  by 
his  own  conception  of  that  standard.  (So  much 
of  that  standard  as  is  vital  in  his  own  mind,  he 
can  apply  and  no  more~\  His  own  individual 
taste  and  judgment,  clarified  and  disciplined,  of 
course,  by  wide  reading  and  reflection,  are  his 


VI 


only  guides,  ^fhe  standard  of  the  best  is  not 
something  that  any  man  can  apply,  as  he  can 
the  standard  of  weights  and  measures  •  only  the 
best  can  apply  the  best. 

^his  collection  represents  on  the  -whole  my  judg- 
ment of  the  best  Nature  poems  at  my  disposal  in 
the  language.  I  am  surprised  at  the  amount  of 
so-called  Nature  poetry  that  has  been  added  to 
English  literature  during  the  past  fifty  years,  but 
I  find  only  a  little  of  it  of  permanent  worth,  ^he 
painted,  padded,  and  perfumed  Nature  of  so 
many  of  the  younger  poets  I  cannot  stand  at  all. 
I  have  not  knowingly  admitted  any  poem  that 
(was  not  true  to  my  own  observations  of  Nature) 

—  or  that  diverged  at  all  from  the  facts  of  the 
case,      tfhus,  a  poem  that  shows  the  swallow 
perched  upon  the  barn  in  October  I  could  not  ac- 
cept, because  the  swallow  leaves  us  in  August ; 
or  a  poem  that  makes  the  chestnut  bloom  with  the 
lilac  —  an  instance  1  came  across  in  my  reading 

—  would  be  ruled  out  on  like  grounds  •  or  when 
I  find  poppies  blooming  in  the  corn  in  an  Amer- 
ican poem,  as  I  several  times  have  done,  I  pass 
by  on  the  other  side. 

In  a  bird  poem  I  want  the  real  bird  as  a  ba- 
sis —  not  merely  a  description  of  it,  but  its  true   \ 
place  in  the  season  and  in  the  landscape,  and  no  \ 
liberties  taken  ivith  the  facts  of  its  life  history.  ' 
/  must  see  or  hear  or  feel  the  live  bird  in  the 


Vll 


verses,  as  one  does  in  Wordsworth  s  "  Cuckoo" 
or  Emerson's  "  titmouse  "  or  Drawbridge' s  "  Pe- 
wee"  Lowell  is  not  quite  true  to  the  facts  when 
in  one  of  his  poems  he  makes  the  male  oriole  as- 
sist at  nest  building,  fhe  male  may  seem  to 
superintend  the  work,  but  he  does  not  actually 
lend  a  hand.  Give  me  the  real  bird  first,  and 
then  all  the  poetry  that  can  be  evoked  from  it. 

I  am  aware  that  there  is  another  class  of  bird 
poems,  or  poems  inspired  by  birds,  such  as 
Keats' 's  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale"  in  which  there  is 
little  or  no  natural  history,  not  even  of  the  subli- 
mated kind,  and  yet  that  take  high  rank  as 
poems.  It  is  the  "  waking  dream  "  in  these  po- 
ems, the  translation  of  sensuous  impressions  into 
spiritual  longings  and  attractions  that  is  the 
secret  of  their  power.  When  the  poet  can  give 
us  himself,  we  can  well  afford  to  miss  the  bird. 

^he  fanciful  and  allegorical  treatment  of  Nat- 
ure is  for  the  most  part  distasteful  to  me.  I  do 
not  want  a  mere  rhymed  description  of  an  object 
or  scene,  nor  a  fanciful  dressing  of  it  up  in  po- 
etic imagery.  I  want  it  mirrored  in  the  heart 
and  life  of  the  poet ;  true  to  the  reality  without 
and  to  the  emotion  within,  ^fhe  one  thing  that 
makes  a  poem  anyivay  is  emotion  —  the  emotion  of 
love,  of  beauty,  of  sublimity  —  and  these  emotions 
playing  about  the  reality  result  in  the  true  Nat- 
ure poetry  as  in  Wordsworth,  Emerson,  and 


via 


Bryant.  \  ^fhe  poet  is  not  so  much  to  faint  Nature 
as  he  is  to  recreate  her.  He  interprets  her  when 
he  infuses  his  own  love  into  her.  j 

I  have  also  avoided  all  poems  in  which  the 
form  was  difficult,  tf he  form  of  the  masters  like 
Tennyson  and  Wordsworth  is  easy,  easy  as  it  is 
in  organic  Nature  in  her  happy  moods.  I  do 
not  want  to  be  compelled  to  expend  any  force 
upon  the  poets  form  —  I  want  it  all  for  his 
thought.  A  tortuous  and  difficult  channel  may 
add  to  the  beauty  of  a  mountain  brook,  but  it 
does  not  add  to  the  beauty  of  a  poem,  fke  moun- 
tain-brook quality  must  be  in  the  spirit,  the  con- 
ception. 1  have  always  been  shy  of  the  sonnet, 
because  it  so  rarely  flows ;  it  is  labored ;  it  is 
arbitrary,  with  sentences  cut  in  the  middle  and 
gasping  out  a  feeble  rhyme.  But  the  sonnets  of 
at  least  one  of  our  younger  poets  —  author  of 
"  *fhe  Fields  of  Dawn  "  —  actually  flow,  and  one 
can  read  them  without  any  mental  contortion,  as 
of  course  he  can  the  great  sonnets  of  Shakespeare 
and  Milton  and  Wordsworth. 

One  of  our  young  Southern  poets  has  written 
many  Nature  poems  that  are  based  on  real  love 
and  observation,  and  that  abound  in  striking  and 
beautiful  lines,  but  his  form  is  involved  and  dif- 
ficult, and  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  in  his  nu- 
merous volumes  one  whole  poem  that  I  could  take. 

rfhe  standard  New  England  poets  are  not 
more  largely  represented  in  my  collection,  because 


IX 


of  copyright  restrictions.  A  few  of  our  minor 
poets  are  also  absent  for  the  same  reason. 

I  am  indebted  to  Hovghton,  Mifflin  &  Corn- 
fan}  for  special  permission  to  use  such  poems 
as  I  have  selected  from  the  works  of  Longfellow, 
Emerson,  Lowell,  Whittier,  Holmes,  Bret  Harte, 
Frank  Bolles,  Aldrich,  Celia  Thaxter,  ^fhoreau, 
Miss  Thomas,  rfrowbridge,  Edgar  Fawcett, 
Maurice  Thompson,  Samuel  Longfellow,  Helen 
Gray  Cone,  E.  C.  Stedman,  Frank  D.  Sherman, 
Mary  Clemmer  Ames,  Anna  Boynton  Averill, 
Dinah  Maria  Mulock  Craik,  Wilson  Flagg, 
William  Dean  Howells,  Charles  Kingsley,  Lucy 
Larcom,  George  Parsons  Lathrop,  Lloyd  Mifflin, 
James  Montgomery,  Nora  Perry,  Charles  G.  D. 
Roberts,  Henry  ^imrod,  Jones  f^ery,  and  A.  West. 

I  am  also  indebted  to  D.  Appleton  &  Com- 
pany for  five  of  the  poems  of  Bryant ;  to  the  Cen- 
tury Company  for  four  poems  from  Richard  Wat- 
son Gilder's  "  Five  Books  of  Song,"  and  two  poems 
by  Robert  Underwood  Johnson;  to  Robert  Clark 
Company  for  poems  by  William  D.  Gallagher; 
to  Henry  Holt  &  Company  for  the  poem  by  Robert 
Kelley  Weeks;  to  Lee  &  She  par d  for  the  poem 
by  David  Atwood  Wasson  ;  to  J.  B.  Lippincott 
Company  for  Harrison  Smith  Morris's  poem 
"tfhe  Lonely  Bird"  from  "Madonna  and 
other  Poems,"  and  for  the  selection  entitled  "  *fhe 
Closing  Scene "  from  Thomas  Buchanan  Read's 
Poems  ;  to  Longmans,  Green  &  Company  for  the 


poem  by  Andrew  Lang,  and  Poems  by  Sarah 
Piatt ;  to  David  McKay  for  seven  poems  from 
Walt  Whitman's  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  ;  to  Small, 
Maynard  &  Company  for  fwo  selections  from 
Bliss  Carman's  "  Songs  from  Fagabondia,"  and 
two  from  "Poems,  by  John  B.  ^abb"  ;  to  A.  M. 
Robertson  for  the  poem  by  Charles  Keeler  ;  to  R. 
H.  Russell  for  poems  by  Robert  Burns  Wilson;  to 
Charles.  Scribner's  Sons  for  poems  by  Henry  van 
Dyke. 

My  thanks  are  further  due  to  Miss  Cornelia 
Holroyd  Bradley  for  permission  to  use  the  poem 
by  her  mother,  Mrs.  Mary  Emily  Bradley ;  to 
Rollin  H.  Cooke  for  permission  to  reprint  the  poem 
by  Rose  tferry  Cooke  ;  to  Charlton  H.  Royal,  exec- 
utor of  the  estate  of  Thomas  MacKellar,  for  allow- 
ing the  reprint  of  "  <fke  troublesome  Fly "  ;  to 
Mrs.  Florence  Laightonfor  permission  to  use  the 
poem  by  Albert  Laighton  ;  to  Annabel  Irvine 
Brown  for  permission  to  use  the  poems  of  her 
father,  J.  P.  Irvine,  and  to  the  following  authors 
for  the  use  of  their  poems :  Henry  Abbey,  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Akers  Allen,  Joel  Benton,  Myron  B. 
Benton,  Mrs.  Darmesteter,  Charles  DeKay,  Mary 
Isabella  Forsyth,  Hamlin  Garland,  Harriet 
McEwen  Kimball,  George  Murray,  Mrs.  Sara  L. 
Oberholtzer,  Charles  Warren  Stoddard,  and  Mrs. 
Nelly  Hart  Woodworth. 

JOHN  BURROUGHS. 
September,  /par. 


SONGS  OF  NATURE 


THE   RETIREMENT 


AREWELL,  thou    busy  world, 

and  may 

We  never  meet  again  ; 
Here  I  can   eat   and   sleep  and 

pray, 
And  do  more  good  in  one  short 

day 

Than  he  who  his  whole  age  outwears 
Upon  the  most  conspicuous  theatres, 
Where  naught  but  vanity  and  vice  appears. 

Good  God  !  .how  sweet  are  all  things  here  ! 
How  beautiful  the  fields  appear  ! 

How  cleanly  do  we  feed  and  lie  ! 
Lord  !  what  good  hours  do  we  keep  ! 
How  quietly  we  sleep  ! 

What  peace,  what  unanimity  ! 
How  innocent  from  the  lewd  fashion 
Is  all  our  business,  all  our  recreation  ! 

O,  how  happy  here's  our  leisure  ! 
O,  how  innocent  our  pleasure  ! 
O  ye  valleys  !     O  ye  mountains  ! 
O  ye  groves,  and  crystal  fountains  ! 
How  I  love,  at  liberty, 
By  turns  to  come  and  visit  ye  ! 
i 


Dear  solitude,  the  soul's  best  friend, 

That  man  acquainted  with  himself  dost  make, 

And  all  his  Maker's  wonders  to  intend, 

With  thee  I  here  converse  at  will, 

And  would  be  glad  to  do  so  still, 
For    it    is    thou    alone    that    keep'st    the    soul 
awake. 

How  calm  and  quiet  a  delight 

Is  it,  alone, 
To  read  and  meditate  and  write, 

By  none  offended,  and  offending  none  ! 
To  walk,  ride,  sit,  or  sleep  at  one's  own  ease ; 
And,  pleasing  a    man's   self,  none    other   to    dis- 
please. 

O  my  beloved  nymph,  fair  Dove, 
Princess  of  rivers,  how  I  love 

Upon  thy  flowery  banks  to  lie, 
And  view  thy  silver  stream, 
When  gilded  by  a  Summer's  beam  ! 

And  in  it  all  thy  wanton  fry 

Playing  at  liberty, 
And,  with  my  angle,  upon  them 

The  all  of  treachery 

I  ever  learned  industriously  to  try ! 

Such  streams  Rome's  yellow  Tiber  cannot  show. 
The  Iberian  Tagus,  or  Ligurian  Po ; 
The  Maese,  the  Danube,  and  the  Rhine, 
Are  puddle-water,  all,  compared  with  thine ; 
And  Loire's  pure  streams  yet  too  polluted  are 
With  thine,  much  purer,  to  compare ; 


The  rapid  Garonne  and  the  winding  Seine 
Are  both  too  mean, 

Beloved  Dove,  with  thee 

To  vie  priority ; 

Nay,  Tame  and  Isis,  when  conjoined,  submit, 
And  lay  their  trophies  at  thy  silver  feet. 

O  my  beloved  rocks,  that  rise 

To  awe  the  earth  and  brave  the  skies ! 

From  some  aspiring  mountain's  crown 

How  dearly  do  I  love, 
Giddy  with  pleasure  to  look  down  ; 

And  from  the  vales  to  view  the  noble  heights 

above  ; 

O  my  beloved  caves  !   from  dog-star's  heat, 
And  all  anxieties,  my  safe  retreat ; 
What  safety,  privacy,  what  true  delight, 
In  the  artificial  light 

Your  gloomy  entrails  make, 

Have  I  taken,  do  I  take ! 
How  oft,  when  grief  has  made  me  fly, 
To  hide  me  from  society 
E'en  of  my  dearest  friends,  have  I, 

In  your  recesses'  friendly  shade, 

All  my  sorrows  open  laid, 
And  my  most  secret  woes  intrusted  to  your  privacy  ! 

Lord  !   would  men  let  me  alone, 
What  an  over-happy  one 

Should  I  think  myself  to  be — 
Might  I  in  this  desert  place, 
(Which  most  men  in  discourse  disgrace) 

Live  but  undisturbed  and  free ! 


Here  in  this  despised  recess, 

Would  I,  maugre  Winter's  cold, 
And  the  Summer's  worst  excess, 

Try  to  live  out  to  sixty  full  years  old  ; 
And,  all  the  while, 

Without  an  envious  eye 
On  any  thriving  under  Fortune's  smile, 

Contented  live,  and  then  contented  die. 


FOR    ONE  RETIRED   INTO   THE 
COUNTRY 


By  Charles  Wesley 

ENCE,  lying  world,  with  all  thy 

care, 

With  all  thy  shows  of  good  and 
fair, 

Of  beautiful  or  great ! 
Stand  with  thy  slighted  charms 

aloof, 

Nor  dare  invade  my  peaceful  roof, 
Or  trouble  my  retreat. 

Far  from  thy  mad  fantastic  ways 
I  here  have  found  a  resting-place 

Of  poor  wayfaring  men  : 
Calm  as  the  hermit  in  his  grot 
I  here  enjoy  my  happy  lot, 

And  solid  pleasures  gain. 


Along  the  hill  or  dewy  mead 
In  sweet  forgetfulness  I  tread, 

Or  wander  through  the  grove ; 
As  Adam  in  his  native  seat, 
In  all  his  works  my  God  I  meet, 

The  object  of  my  love. 

I  see  his  beauty  in  the  flower : 

To  shade  my  walks  and  deck  my  bower 

His  love  and  wisdom  join  ; 
Him  in  the  feathered  choir  I  hear, 
And  own,  while  all  my  soul  is  ear, 

The  music  is  divine. 

In  yon  unbounded  plain  I  see 
A  sketch  of  his  immensity 

Who  spans  these  ample  skies ; 
Whose  presence  makes  the  happy  place, 
And  opens  in  the  wilderness 

A  blooming  paradise. 

Oh,  would  he  now  himself  impart, 
And  fix  the  Eden  in  my  heart, 

The  sense  of  sin  forgiven  : 
How  should  I  then  throw  off  my  load, 
And  walk  delightfully  with  God, 

And  follow  Christ  to  heaven  ! 


ODE   ON   SOLITUDE 

By  Alexander  Pope 

APPY  the  man  whose  wish  and 

care 

A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 
In  his  own  ground : 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose 

fields  with  bread, 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire  ; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter  fire : 

Blest,  who  can  unconcernedly  find 

Hours,  days,  and  years  slide  soft  away  ; 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day  : 

Sound  sleep  by  night,  study  and  ease, 
Together  mixt,  sweet  recreation ; 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please, 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown  ; 

Thus,  unlamented,  let  me  die, 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 


HYMN   TO  CYNTHIA 

By  Ben  Jonson 

UEEN  and  Huntress,  chaste  and 

fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep: 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close ; 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver ; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever ; 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 


8 

RETIREMENT 

By  Thomas  Warton 

INSCRIPTION    IN    A    HERMITAGE 

ENEATH    this    stony    roof  re- 
clined, 
I    soothe   to   peace   my    pensive 

mind  ; 
And  while,  to  shade   my  lowly 

cave, 
Embowering  elms  their  umbrage 

wave ; 

And  while  the  maple  dish  is  mine  — 
The  beechen  cup,  unstained  with  wine  — 
I  scorn  the  gay  licentious  crowd, 
Nor  heed  the  toys  that  deck  the  proud. 

Within  my  limits,  lone  and  still, 
The  blackbird  pipes  in  artless  trill ; 
Fast  by  my  couch,  congenial  guest, 
The  wren  has  wove  her  mossy  nest ; 
From  busy  scenes  and  brighter  skies, 
To  lurk  with  innocence,  she  flies, 
Here  hopes  in  safe  repose  to  dwell, 
Nor  aught  suspects  the  sylvan  cell. 

At  morn  I  take  my  customed  round, 
To  mark  how  buds  yon  shrubby  mound, 
And  every  opening  primrose  count, 
That  trimly  paints  my  blooming  mount ; 


Or  o'er  the  sculptures,  quaint  and  rude, 
That  grace  my  gloomy  solitude, 
I  teach  in  winding  wreaths  to  stray 
Fantastic  ivy's  gadding  spray. 

At  eve,  within  yon  studious  nook, 

I  ope  my  brass-embossed  book, 

Portrayed  with  many  a  holy  deed 

Of  martyrs,  crowned  with  heavenly  meed  ; 

Then,  as  my  taper  waxes  dim, 

Chant,  ere  I  sleep,  my  measured  hymn, 

And  at  the  close,  the  gleams  behold 

Of  parting  wings,  be-dropt  with  gold. 

While  such  pure  joys  my  bliss  create, 
Who  but  would  smile  at  guilty  state  ? 
Who  but  would  wish  his  holy  lot 
In  calm  oblivion's  humble  grot  ? 
Who  but  would  cast  his  pomp  away, 
To  take  my  staff,  and  amice  gray  ; 
And  to  the  world's  tumultuous  stage 
Prefer  the  blameless  hermitage  ? 


IO 


PACK   CLOUDS   AWAY 

By  Thomas  Heywood 

ACK  clouds  away,  and  welcome 

day, 

With    night    we    banish  sor- 
row ; 
Sweet    air,    blow    soft ;    mount, 

lark,  aloft, 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow  : 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing  ;  nightingale,  sing, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow, 
You  petty  elves,  amongst  yourselves, 

Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow. 


II 


TO   BLOSSOMS 

By  Robert  Herrick 

AIR  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past, 
But    you   may   stay  yet   here   a 

while 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 

And  go  at  last. 

What !  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight, 

And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 
'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth, 
Merely  to  show  your  worth, 

And  lose  you  quite. 


THE  HOUSEKEEPER 

By  Charles  Lamb 

THE  frugal  snail,  with  forecast  of  repose, 
Carries  his  house  with  him  where'er  he  goes; 
Peeps  out,  - —  and  if  there  comes  a  shower 

of  rain, 

Retreats  to  his  small  domicile  again. 
Touch  but  a  tip  of  him,  a  horn,  —  'tis  well,  — 
He  curls  up  in  his  sanctuary  shell. 
He's  his  own  landlord,  his  own  tenant;  stay 
Long  as  he  will,  he  dreads  no  Quarter  Day. 
Himself  he  boards  and  lodges  ;  both  invites 
And  feasts  himself;  sleeps   with  himself  o'  nights. 


12 


He  spares  the  upholsterer  trouble  to  procure 
Chattels  ;  himself  is  his  own  furniture, 
And  his  sole  riches.      Whereso'er  he  roam,  — 
Knock  when  you  will,  —  he's  sure  to  be  at  home. 

THE   CLOUD 

By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

BRING   fresh  showers   for   the 

thirsting  flowers, 
From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 
I  bear  light   shade   for  the  leaves 

when  laid 

In  their  noonday  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are   shaken  the 

dews  that  waken 
The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under ; 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 
And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skyey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 


Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 
Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack 

When  the  morning-star  shines  dead, 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  Sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea 
beneath 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 


14 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  the  burning  zone, 

And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colors  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky : 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain  when  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex 
gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 


I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the 
tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


THE   RECOLLECTION 

By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

OW  the  last  day  of  many  days, 
All    beautiful    and    bright    as 

thou, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is 

dead, 
Rise,    Memory,    and    write    its 

praise ! 
Up,  do  thy  wonted  work !   come,  trace 

The  epitaph  of  glory  fled,  — 
For  now  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow. 

We  wandered  to  the  pine  forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam ; 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The  smile  of  Heaven  lay ; 


i6 


It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  were  one 
Sent  from  beyond  the  skies, 

Which  scattered  from  above  the  sun 
A  light  of  Paradise. 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced, 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath 

That  under  heaven  is  blown, 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own  ; 
Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep, 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean  woods  may  be. 

How  calm  it  was  !  —  the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound, 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seemed  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  white  mountain  waste, 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced, — 

A  spirit  interfused  around, 
A  thrilling  silent  life, 


To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife;  — 

And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 
The  magic  circle  there 

Was  one  fair  Form  that  filled  with  love 
The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough, 
Each  seemed  as  'twere  a  little  sky 

Gulfed  in  a  world  below  ; 
A  firmament  of  purple  light 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night, 

And  purer  than  the  day  — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there. 

There  lay  the  glade  and  neighboring  lawn, 

And  through  the  dark  green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen, 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 


i8 


Like  one  beloved  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast, 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  exprest ; 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought, 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
Though  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 

The  forests  ever  green, 
Less  oft  is  peace  in  Shelley's  mind 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 


THE   INVITATION. 

By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

JEST  and  brightest,  come  away ! 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 
Which,    like    thee    to    those    in 

sorrow 

Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-mor- 
row 

To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 
The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring 
Through  the  winter  wandering, 
Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  Morn 
To  hoar  February  born  ; 
Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
It  kissed  the  forehead  of  the  Earth, 


And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free, 
And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains, 
And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 
Strewed  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 
To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs  — 
To  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 
Its  music  lest  it  should  not  find 
An  echo  in  another's  mind, 
While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 
Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake  !   arise  !  and  come  away  ! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
And  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green  and  ivy  dun 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun; 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be, 
And  the  sand-hills  of  the  sea ;  — 
Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 
And  wind-flowers  and  violets, 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue, 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new  ; 


20 


When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dun  and  blind, 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  sun. 

TO   THE  RAINBOW. 

By  Thomas  Campbell 

RIUMPHAL    arch,    that    fill'st 

the  sky 

When  storms  prepare  to  part, 
I  ask  not  proud  philosophy 

To  teach  me  what  thou  art. 
V^   /     /  ^ 
j     J$%~~*  )sj  Still  seem  as  to  my  childhood's 

sight, 

A  midway  station  given, 
For  happy  spirits  to  alight 

Betwixt  the  earth  and  heaven. 

Can  all  that  optics  teach  unfold 

Thy  form  to  please  me  so, 
As  when  I  dreamed  of  gems  and  gold 

Hid  in  thy  radiant  bow  ? 

And  yet,  fair  bow,  no  fabling  dreams, 

But  words  of  the  Most  High, 
Have  told  why  first  thy  robe  of  beams 

Was  woven  in  the  sky. 


21 


When  o'er  the  green,  undeluged  earth 
Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 

How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers  forth 
To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ! 

And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 

O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 
Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep, 

The  first-made  anthem  rang 
On  earth,  delivered  from  the  deep, 

And  the  first  poet  sang. 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 
The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 

When,  glittering  in  the  freshened  fields, 
The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 
O'er  mountain,  tower,  and  town, 

Or  mirrored  in  the  ocean  vast, 
A  thousand  fathoms  down! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 
As  young  thy  beauties  seem, 

As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 
First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For,  faithful  to  its  sacred  page, 
Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span  ; 

Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age, 
That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 


22 


THE  BEECH   TREE'S   PETITION 

By  Thomas  Campbell 

LEAVE  this  barren  spot  to  me  ! 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the 

beechen  tree! 
Though  bush  or  floweret  never 

grow 

My  dark  unwarming  shade  be- 
low; 

Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 
Of  rosy  blush,  or  yellow  hue  ! 
Nor  fruits  of  autumn,  blossom-born, 
My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn  ; 
Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 
Th'  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive  ; 
Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me: 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ! 

Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green  ; 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour ; 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made  ; 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carv'd  many  a  long-forgotten  name. 
Oh  !   by  the  sighs  of  gentle  sound, 
First  breathed  upon  this  sacred  ground  ; 


23 

By  all  that  Love  has  whisper'd  here, 
Or  beauty  heard  with  ravish'd  ear; 
As  Love's  own  altar  honour  me : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 

SOLITUDE 

By  Lord  Byron 

(From  "Childe  Harold.") 

[HERE  is  a  pleasure  in  the  path- 
less woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely 

shore, 

There  is  society  where  none  in- 
trudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in 

its  roar: 

I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark-blue  Ocean  —  roll  ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without   a   grave,   unknell'd,   uncoffin'd,  and  un- 
known. 


NIGHT 

By  Lord  Byron 
(From  "Childe  Harold.") 


Who 


IS  night,  when  Meditation  bids 

us  feel 
We    once    have  loved,  though 

love  is  at  an  end : 
The  heart,  lone  mourner  of  its 

baffled  zeal, 
Though     friendless    now,    will 

dream  it  had  a  friend, 
weight  of  years    would    wish    to 


with   the 

bend, 
When    Youth    itself  survives    young    Love    and 

Joy? 

Alas !  when  mingling  souls  forget  to  blend, 
Death  hath  but  little  left  him  to  destroy  ! 
Ah !  happy  years  !  once  more  who  would  not  be 
a  boy  ? 

Thus  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side, 
To  gaze  on  Dian's  wave-reflected  sphere, 
The  soul  forgets  her  schemes  of  hope  and  pride, 
And  flies  unconscious  o'er  each  backward  year. 
None  are  so  desolate  but  something  dear, 
Dearer  than  self,  possesses  or  possessed 
A  thought,  and  claims  the  homage  of  a  tear ; 
A  flashing  pang  !  of  which  the  weary  breast 
Would  still,  albeit  in  vain,  the  heavy  heart  divest. 


25 

To  sit  on  rocks,  to  muse  o'er  flood  and  fell, 
To  slowly  trace  the  forest's  shady  scene, 
Where  things  that  own  not  man's  dominion  dwell; 
And  mortal  foot  hath  ne'er  or  rarely  been  ; 
To  climb  the  trackless  mountain  all  unseen, 
With  the  wild  flock  that  never  needs  a  fold  •, 
Alone  o'er  steeps  and  foaming  falls  to  lean ; 
This  is  not  solitude;  Jt  is  but  to  hold 
Converse   with   Nature's    charms,   and    view    her 
stores  unrolled. 

But  midst  the  crowd,  the  hum,  the  shock  of  men 
To  hear,  to  see,  to  feel,  and  to  possess, 
And  roam  along,  the  world's  tired  denizen, 
With  none  who  bless  us,  none  whom  we  can  bless  ; 
Minions  of  splendour  shrinking  from  distress  ! 
None  that,  with  kindred  consciousness  endued, 
If  we  were  not,  would  seem  to  smile  the  less 
Of  all  that  flatter'd,  follow'd,  sought,  and  sued  ; 
This  is  to  be  alone ;  this,  this  is  solitude  ! 

SONNET 

By  William  Shakespeare 

FULL  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy. 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace : 


26 


Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine 
With  all  triumphant  splendor  on  my  brow ; 
But  out!   alack!   he  was  but  one  hour  mine, 
The  region  cloud  hath  mask'd  him  from  me  now. 
Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth ; 
Suns   of  the  world    may  stain,  when  heaven's  sun 
staineth. 


MOONLIGHT 

By  William  Shakespeare 

OW  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps 
upon  this  bank ! 

Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the 
sounds  of  music 

Creep  in  your  ears :  soft  still- 
ness, and  the  night, 

Become  the  touches  of  sweet 
harmony. 

Sit,  Jessica  :  look,  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patines  of  bright  gold : 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-ey'd  cherubims. 


FLOWERS 

By  William  Shakespeare 
(From  "Winter  Night's  Tale.") 

O  Proserpina, 

For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted,  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon  !  daffodils, 
That  come  before  the  swallow  dares,  and  take 
The  winds  of  March  with  beauty  ;  violets  dim, 
But  sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes, 
Or  Cytherea's  breath ;   pale  primroses, 
That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  strength,  a  malady 
Most  incident  to  maids ;  bold  ox-lips,  and 
The  crown-imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds, 
The  flower-de-luce  being  one  !     O,  these  I  lack, 
To  make  you  garlands  of;  and  my  sweet  friend, 
To  strew  him  o'er  and  o'er ! 

DOVER   CLIFFS 

By  William  Shakespeare 
(From  "  King  Lear.") 

COME  on,  sir ;  here's  the  place  :  —  stand  still. 
—  How  fearful 
And  dizzy  'tis,  to  cast  one's  eye  so  low ! 
The  crows  and  choughs,  that  wing  the  midway  air, 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles  :   half  way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire ;  dreadful  trade  ! 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head : 


28 


The  fishermen,  that  walk  upon  the  beach, 
Appear  like  mice ;  and  yond'  tall  anchoring  bark 
Diminished  to  her  cock ;  her  cock,  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight :  the  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumber'd  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high  :  —  I'll  look  no  more  ; 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong. 


THE   STORMY   PETREL 

By  Bryan  Waller  Procter  (" 'Barry  Cornwall") 

THOUSAND  miles  from  land 

are  we, 
Tossing    about     on    the    roaring 

sea; 
From  billow  to  bounding  billow 

cast, 
Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy 

blast : 

The  sails  are  scatter'd  abroad,  like  weeds, 
The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds, 
The  mighty  cables,  and  iron  chains, 
The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains, 
They  strain  and  they  crack,  and  hearts  like  stone 
Their  natural  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  !      Up  and  down  ! 
From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's  crown, 
And  midst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 
The  Stormy  Petrel  finds  a  home,  — 


29 

A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be, 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young,  and  to  teach  them  spring 

At  once  o'er  the  waves  on  their  stormy  wing. 

O'er  the  Deep  !     O'er  the  Deep  ! 

Where  the  whale,  and  the  shark,  and  the  sword-fish 

sleep, 

Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 
The  Petrel  telleth  her  tale  —  in  vain  ; 
For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Who  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storms  unheard ! 
Ah  !  thus  does  the  prophet,  of  good  or  ill, 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still : 
Yet  he  ne'er  falters  :  —  So,  Petrel !   spring 
Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing! 


THE   SEA 

By  Bryan  Waller  Procter  ("Barry  Cornwall") 

THE  sea !  the  sea  !  the  open  sea  ! 
The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free  ! 
Without  a  mark,  without  a  bound, 
It  runneth  the  earth's  wide  regions  round ; 
It  plays  with  the  clouds  ;  it  mocks  the  skies ; 
Or  like  a  cradled  creature  lies. 

I'm  on  the  sea  !      I'm  on  the  sea ! 
I  am  where  I  would  ever  be ; 


3° 


With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 
And  silence  wheresoe'er  I  go ; 
If  a  storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 
What  matter  ?     /  shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I  love,  O,  how  I  love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 
When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon 
Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 
And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 
And  why  the  sou'west  blasts  do  blow. 

I  never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 
But  I  lov'd  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
And  backwards  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a  bird  that  seeketh  its  mother's  nest ; 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  is,  to  me ; 
For  I  was  born  on  the  open  sea ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 
In  the  noisy  hour  when  I  was  born ; 
And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  roll'd, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold  ; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcom'd  to  life  the  ocean-child  ! 

Fve  liv'd  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 
Full  fifty  summers,  a  sailor's  life, 
With  wealth  to  spend  and  a  power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sighed  for  change ; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 
Shall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded  sea ! 


THE  OWL 

By  Bryan  Waller  Procter  {"Barry  Cornwall"} 

|N    the    hollow    tree,    in    the    old 

gray  tower, 

The  spectral  Owl  doth  dwell ; 
Dull,  hated,  despised  in  the  sun- 
shine hour, 
But    at    dusk    he's    abroad    and 

well! 
Not  a  bird  of  the  forest  e'er  mates  with  him ; 

All  mock  him  outright,  by  day  ; 
But  at  night,  when  the  woods  grow  still  and  dim, 
The  boldest  will  shrink  away  ! 

O,  when  the  night  falls,  and  roosts  the  fowl, 
Then,  then,  is  the  reign  of  the  Horned  Owl ! 

And  the  Owl  hath  a  bride,  who  is  fond  and  bold, 

And  loveth  the  wood's  deep  gloom  ; 
And,  with  eyes  like  the  shine  of  the  moonstone  cold, 

She  awaiteth  her  ghastly  groom  ; 
Not  a  feather  she  moves,  not  a  carol  she  sings, 

As  she  waits  in  her  tree  so  still ; 
But  when  her  heart  heareth  his  flapping  wings, 

She  hoots  out  her  welcome  shrill ! 

O  —  when  the  moon  shines,  and  dogs  do  howl, 
Then,  then,  is  the  joy  of  the  Horned  Owl ! 

Mourn  not  for  the  Owl,  nor  his  gloomy  plight ; 

The  Owl  hath  his  share  of  good  : 
If  a  prisoner  he  be  in  the  broad  daylight, 

He  is  lord  in  the  dark  greenwood  ! 


32 

Nor  lonely  the  bird,  nor  his  ghastly  mate  — 

They  are  each  unto  each  a  pride ; 
Thrice  fonder,  perhaps,  since  a  strange,  dark  fate 
Hath  rent  them  from  all  beside ! 

So,  when  the  night  falls,  and  dogs  do  howl, 
Sing,  Ho  !  for  the  reign  of  the  Horned  Owl ! 
We  know  not  alway 
Who  are  kings  by  day, 
But  the  king  of  the  night  is  the  bold  brown  Owl ! 


DARWINISM 

By  Mrs.  Darmsteter  (A.  Mary  F.  Robinson) 


HEN  first  the  un flowering  Fern- 
forest, 

Shadowed  the  dim  lagoons  of  old, 
A  vague  unconscious   long  un- 
rest 

Swayed  the  great  fronds  of  green 
and  gold. 


Until  the  flexible  stems  grew  rude, 

The  fronds  began  to  branch  and  bower, 

And  lo  !   upon  the  unblossoming  wood 
There  breaks  a  dawn  of  apple-flower. 

Then  on  the  fruitful  Forest-boughs 

For  ages  long  the  unquiet  ape 
Swung  happy  in  his  airy  house 

And  plucked  the  apple  and  sucked  the  grape. 


33 


Until  in  him  at  length  there  stirred 
The  old,  unchanged,  remote  distress, 

That  pierced  his  world  of  wind  and  bird 
With  some  divine  unhappiness. 

Not  Love,  nor  the  wild  fruits  he  sought; 

Nor  the  fierce  battles  of  his  clan 
Could  still  the  unborn  and  aching  thought 

Until  the  brute  became  the  man. 

Long  since.     .     .     And  now  the  same  unrest 
Goads  to  the  same  invisible  goal, 

Till  some  new  gift,  undreamed,  unguessed, 
End  the  new  travail  of  the  soul. 


SCYTHE  SONG 

By  Andrew  Lang 

'WERS,  weary  and  brown,  and 

blithe, 
What  is  the  word  methinks  ye 

know, 

Endless  over-word  that  the  Scythe 
Sings  to  the  blades  of  the  grass 

below  ? 
Scythes  that  swing  in  the  grass  and  clover, 

Something,  still,  they  say  as  they  pass ; 
What  is  the  word  that,  over  and  over, 

Sings  the  Scythe  to  the  flowers  and  grass  ? 


34 


Husk,  ah  hush,  the  Scythes  are  saying, 

Hush,  and  heed  not,  and  fall  asleep  ; 
Hush,  they  say  to  the  grasses  swaying, 

Hush,  they  sing  to  the  clover  deep ! 
Hush  —  'tis  the  lullaby  Time  is  singing  — 

Hush,  and  heed  not,  for  all  things  pass, 
Hush,  ah  hush  !  and  the  Scythes  are  swinging 

Over  the  clover,  over  the  grass ! 


THE  CROCUS 

By  Harriet  Eleanor  Hamilton  King 

|UT  of  the  frozen  earth  below, 
Out    of    the     melting    of    the 

snow, 
No  flower,  but  a  film,  I  push 

to  light ; 
No  stem,  no  bud,  —  yet  I  have 

burst 
The  bars  of  winter,  I  am  the  first, 

0  Sun,  to  greet  thee  out  of  the  night ! 

Bare  are  the  branches,  cold  is  the  air, 
Yet  it  is  fire  at  the  heart  I  bear, 

1  come,  a  flame  that  is  fed  by  none : 
The  summer  hath  blossoms  for  her  delight, 
Thick  and  dewy  and  waxen-white, 

Thou  seest  me  golden,  O  golden  Sun ! 


35 

Deep  in  the  warm  sleep  underground 
Life  is  still,  and  the  peace  profound  : 

Yet  a  beam  that  pierced,  and  a  thrill  that  smote 
CalPd  me  and  drew  me  from  far  away ;  — 
I  rose,  I  came,  to  the  open  day 

I  have  won,  unshelter'd,  alone,  remote. 

No  bee  strays  out  to  greet  me  at  mon, 
I  shall  die  ere  the  butterfly  is  born, 

I  shall  hear  no  note  of  the  nightingale ; 
The  swallow  will  come  at  the  break  of  green, 
He  will  never  know  that  I  have  been 

Before  him  here  when  the  world  was  pale. 

They  will  follow,  the  rose  with  the  thorny  stem, 
The  hyacinth  stalk,  —  soft  airs  for  them ; 

They  shall  have  strength,  I  have  but  love: 
They  shall  not  be  tender  as  I,  — 
Yet  I  fought  here  first,  to  bloom,  to  die, 

To  shine  in  his  face  who  shines  above. 

O  Glory  of  heaven,  O  Ruler  of  morn, 

0  Dream  that  shap'd  me,  and  I  was  born 

In  thy  likeness,  starry,  and  flower  of  flame ; 

1  lie  on  the  earth,  and  to  thee  look  up, 
Into  thy  image  will  grow  my  cup, 

Till  a  sunbeam  dissolve  it  into  the  same. 


TO   A   MOUSE 

ON    TURNING     HER    UP     IN     HER     NEST    WITH    THE 
PLOUGH,    NOVEMBER,    1785 

By  Robert  Burns 

EE,    sleekit,    cow'rin',    tim'rous 

beastie, 
O,    what    a    panic's    in    thy 

breastie  ! 

Thou    need    na    start    awa    sae 
hasty, 

Wr  bickering  brattle ! 


I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 
Wi'  murd'ring  prattle  ! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion, 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow-mortal  ! 

I  doubt  na,  whiles,  but  thou  may  thieve  ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  ! 
A  daimen-icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request  ; 
I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave, 

And  never  miss't  ! 


Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin  ! 


37 


An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin', 

Baith  snell  an'  keen ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  and  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 
Till  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  past, 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble, 

An'  cranreuch  cauld ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 

An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain, 
For  promis'd  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 
But,  Och !   I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear  ! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear ! 


AFTON  WATER 

By  Robert  Burns 

LOW    gently,    sweet    Afton, 

among  thy  green  braes, 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song 

in  thy  praise; 

My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  mur- 
muring stream, 

Flow   gently,  sweet   Afton,  dis- 
turb not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove  whose  echo  resounds  thro*  the 

glen. 

Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighboring  hills, 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear  winding  rills-, 
There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 
My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow  ! 
There  oft  as  mild  ev'ning  weeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides ; 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave, 
As  gathering  sweet  flow'rets  she  stems  thy  clear 
wave ! 


39 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes; 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays ; 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 

ON    SEEING   A   WOUNDED    HARE 
LIMP   BY   ME 

WHICH    A    FELLOW    HAD    JUST    SHOT    AT 

By  Robert  Burns 

I 

INHUMAN   man!   curse   on  thy 

barb'rous  art, 

And    blasted   be    thy   murder- 
aiming  eye ; 
May    never    pity    soothe   thee 

with  a  sigh, 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel 
heart ! 

II 

Go  live,  poor  wanderer  of  the  wood  and  field, 
The  bitter  little  that  of  life  remains ; 
No  more  the  thickening  brakes  and   verdant 
plains 

To  thee  shall  home,  or  food,  or  pastime  yield. 

Ill 

Seek,  mangled  wretch,  some  place  of  wonted  rest, 
No  more  of  rest,  but  now  thy  dying  bed  ! 
The  sheltering  rushes  whistling  o'er  thy  head, 

The  cold  earth  with  thy  bloody  bosom  prest. 


40 

IV 

Oft  as  by  winding  Nith,  I,  musing,  wait 

The  sober  eve,  or  hail  the  cheerful  dawn, 
I'll  miss  thee  sporting  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  curse  the  ruffian's  aim,  and  mourn  thy  hapless 
fate. 


"  AGAIN   REJOICING  NATURE 
SEES" 

By  Robert  Burns 

GAIN  rejoicing  Nature  sees 

Her    robe    assume    its    vernal 

hues, 
Her    leafy    locks    wave    in    the 

breeze, 

All  freshly  steep'd  in  morning 
dews. 

CHOR  US 
And  maun  I  still  on  Menie  doat, 

And  bear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  e'e  ? 
For  it's  jet,  jet  black,  an'  it's  like  a  hawk, 

An'  it  winna  let  a  body  be ! 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw, 

In  vain  to  me  the  vi'lets  spring ; 
In  vain  to  me  in  glen  or  shaw, 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 
And  maun  I  still,  etc. 


The  merry  ploughboy  cheers  his  team, 
Wi'  joy  the  tentie  seedsman  stalks, 

But  life  to  me's  a  weary  dream, 

A  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

And  maun  I  still,  etc. 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims, 

Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry, 

The  stately  swan  majestic  swims, 
And  everything  is  blest  but  I. 

And  maun  I  still,  etc. 

The  sheep-herd  steeks  his  faulding  slap, 

And  owre  the  moorlands  whistles  shrill, 

Wi'  wild,  unequal,  wand'ring  step 
I  meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

And  maun  I  still,  etc. 

And  when  the  lark,  'tween  light  and  dark, 
Blythe  waukens  by  the  daisy's  side, 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  flittering  wings, 
A  woe-worn  ghaist  I  hameward  glide. 

And  maun  I  still,  etc. 

Come  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl, 

And  raging  bend  the  naked  tree ; 
Thy  gloom  will  soothe  my  cheerless  soul, 

When  Nature  all  is  sad  like  me ! 
And  maun  I  still  on  Menie  doat, 

And  bear  the  scorn  that's  in  her  e'e  ? 
For  it's  jet,  jet  black,  an'  it's  like  a  hawk, 

An'  it  winna  let  a  body  be  ! 


TO   A  MOUNTAIN   DAISY 


ON    TURNING    ONE    DOWN     WITH    THE    PLOUGH,   IN 
APRIL,   1786 


By  Robert  Burns 


EE,    modest,     crimson-tipped 

flow'r, 
Thou's    met    me     in    an     evil 

hour; 

For   I   maun    crush    amang  the 
stoure 

Thy  slender  stem. 


To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 
Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas  !  it's  no  thy  neeber  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 

Wi'  spreckl'd  breast ! 
When  upward-springing,  blythe,  to  greet , 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield ; 


43 


But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O'  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise  ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  Life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 

To  mis'ry's  brink, 
Till,  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He,  ruin'd,  sink  ! 


44 


Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date ; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 


BONNIE  BOON 

By  Robert  Burns 

E  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon 
How  can  ye  bloom   sae   fresh 

and  fair  ? 
How    can    ye    chaunt,   ye    little 

birds, 

And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  of  care  ? 
Thou'lt    break    my    heart,    thou 

warbling  bird, 
That  wantons  through  the  flow'ry  thorn, 
Thou  mindst  me  o'  departed  joys, 
Departed  never  to  return. 

Oft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 
When  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi*  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree; 
But  my  fause  lover  stole  my  rose, 

And,  ah  !   he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


45 


SPRING  SONG   IN  THE  CITY 

By  Robert  Buchanan 

HO  remains  in  London, 

In  the  streets  with  me, 
Now  that  Spring  is  blowing 
Warm  winds  from  the  sea ; 

/Now  that  trees  grow  green  and 
Alvf       tal1' 

Now  the  sun  shines  mellow, 


And  with  moist  primroses  all 
English  lanes  are  yellow  ? 

Little  barefoot  maiden, 

Selling  violets  blue, 
Hast  thou  ever  pictur'd 

Where  the  sweetlings  grew  ? 
Oh,  the  warm  wild  woodland  ways, 

Deep  in  dewy  grasses, 
Where  the  wind-blown  shadow  strays. 

Scented  as  it  passes  ! 

Pedlar  breathing  deeply, 

Toiling  into  town, 
With  the  dusty  highway 

You  are  dusky  brown ; 
Hast  thou  seen  by  daisied  leas, 

And  by  rivers  flowing, 
Lilac-ringlets  which  the  breeze 

Loosens  lightly  blowing  ? 

Out  of  yonder  wagon 

Pleasant  hay-scents  float, 


46 

He  who  drives  it  carries 

A  daisy  in  his  coat : 
Oh,  the  English  meadows,  fair 

Far  beyond  all  praises  ! 
Freckled  orchids  everywhere 

'Mid  the  snow  of  daisies  ! 

Now  in  busy  silence 

Broods  the  nightingale, 
Choosing  his  love's  dwelling 

In  a  dimpled  dale  ; 
Round  the  leafy  bower  they  raise 

Rose-trees  wild  are  springing ; 
Underneath,  thro'  the  green  haze, 

Bounds  the  brooklet  singing. 

And  his  love  is  silent 

As  a  bird  can  be, 
For  the  red  buds  only 

Fill  the  red  rose-tree ; 
Just  as  buds  and  blossoms  blow 

He'll  begin  his  tune, 
When  all  is  green  and  roses  glow 

Underneath  the  moon. 

Nowhere  in  the  valleys 

Will  the  wind  be  still, 
Everything  is  waving, 

Wagging  at  his  will : 
Blows  the  milkmaid's  kirtle  clean, 

With  her  hand  press'd  on  it ; 
Lightly  o'er  the  hedge  so  green 

Blows  the  ploughboy's  bonnet. 


47 

Oh,  to  be  a-roaming 

In  an  English  dell ! 
Every  nook  is  wealthy, 

All  the  world  looks  well, 
Tinted  soft  the  Heavens  glow, 

Over  Earth  and  Ocean, 
Waters  flow,  breezes  blow, 

All  is  light  and  motion  ! 


TO   A   HUMMING   BIRD  IN   A 
GARDEN 

By  George  Murray 

LITHE  playmate  of  the  Summer 

time, 

Admiringly  I  greet  thee ; 
Born     in     old     England's    misty 

clime, 

I     scarcely    hoped     to     meet 
thee. 

Com'st  thou  from  forests  of  Peru, 

Or  from  Brazil's  savannahs, 
Where  flowers  of  every  dazzling  hue 

Flaunt,  gorgeous  as  Sultanas  ? 

Thou  scannest  me  with  doubtful  gaze, 

Suspicious  little  stranger ! 
Fear  not,  thy  burnished  wings  may  blaze 

Secure  from  harm  or  danger. 


48 


Now  here,  now  there,  thy  flash  is  seen, 
Like  some  stray  sunbeam  darting, 

With  scarce  a  second's  space  between 
Its  coming  and  departing. 

Mate  of  the  bird  that  lives  sublime 

In  Pat's  immortal  blunder, 
Spied  in  two  places  at  a  time, 

Thou  challenges!  our  wonder. 

Suspended  by  thy  slender  bill, 

Sweet  blooms  thou  lov'st  to  rifle ; 

The  subtle  perfumes  they  distil 
Might  well  thy  being  stifle. 

Surely  the  honey-dew  of  flowers 

Is  slightly  alcoholic, 
Or  why,  through  burning  August  hours, 

Dost  thou  pursue  thy  frolic  ? 

What  though  thy  throatlet  never  rings 
With  music,  soft  or  stirring ; 

Still,  like  a  spinning-wheel,  thy  wings 
Incessantly  are  whirring. 

How  dearly  I  would  love  to  see 

Thy  tiny  cara  sposa, 
As  full  of  sensibility 

As  any  coy  mimosa ! 

They  say,  when  hunters  track  her  nest 
Where  two  warm  pearls  are  lying, 

She  boldly  fights,  though  sore  distrest, 
And  sends  the  brigands  flying. 


49 


What  dainty  epithets  thy  tribes 
Have  won  from  men  of  science ! 

Pedantic  and  poetic  scribes 
For  once  are  in  alliance. 

Crested  Coquette,  and  Azure  Crown, 
Sun  Jewel,  Ruby-Throated, 

With  Flaming  Topaz,  Crimson  Down, 
Are  names  that  may  be  quoted. 

Such  titles  aim  to  paint  the  hues 
That  on  the  darlings  glitter, 

And  were  we  for  a  week  to  muse, 
We  scarce  could  light  on  fitter. 

Farewell,  bright  bird  !  I  envy  thee, 

Gay  rainbow-tinted  rover; 
Would  that  my  life,  like  thine,  were  free 

From  care  till  all  is  over ! 


THE  SKYLARK 

By  Frederick  Tennyson 

HOW  the  blithe  Lark  runs  up  the  golden  stair 
That  leans  thro'  cloudy  gates  from  Heaven 
to  Earth, 
And  all  alone  in  the  empyreal  air 

Fills  it  with  jubilant  sweet  songs  of  mirth ; 
How  far  he  seems,  how  far 

With  the  light  upon  his  wings, 
Is  it  a  bird,  or  star 

That  shines,  and  sings  ? 


50 

What  matter  if  the  days  be  dark  and  frore, 
That  sunbeam  tells  of  other  days  to  be, 
And  singing  in  the  light  that  floods  him  o'er 
In  joy  he  overtakes  Futurity ; 
Under  cloud-arches  vast 

He  peeps,  and  sees  behind 
Great  Summer  coming  fast 
Adown  the  wind  ! 

And  now  he  dives  into  a  rainbow's  rivers, 

In  streams  of  gold  and  purple  he  is  drown'd, 
Shrilly  the  arrows  of  his  song  he  shivers, 

As  tho'  the  stormy  drops  were  turn'd  to  sound; 
And  now  he  issues  thro', 

He  scales  a  cloudy  tower, 
Faintly,  like  falling  dew, 
His  fast  notes  shower. 

Let  every  wind  be  hush'd,  that  I  may  hear 

The  wondrous  things  he  tells  the  World  below, 
Things  that  we  dream  of  he  is  watching  near, 
Hopes  that  we  never  dream'd  he  would  bestow ; 
Alas  !   the  storm  hath  roll'd 

Back  the  gold  gates  again, 
Or  surely  he  had  told 
All  Heaven  to  men ! 

So  the  victorious  Poet  sings  alone, 
And  fills  with  light  his  solitary  home, 

And  thro'  that  glory  sees  new  worlds  foreshown, 
And    hears    high   songs,    and    triumphs   yet   to 
come; 


He  waves  the  air  of  Time 

With  thrills  of  golden  chords, 

And  makes  the  world  to  climb 
On  linked  words. 

What  if  his  hair  be  gray,  his  eyes  be  dim, 

If  wealth  forsake  him,  and  if  friends  be  cold, 
Wonder  unbars  her  thousand  gates  to  him, 
Truth  never  fails,  nor  Beauty  waxes  old ; 
More  than  he  tells  his  eyes 

Behold,  his  spirit  hears, 
Of  grief,  and  joy,  and  sighs 
'Twixt  joy  and  tears. 

Blest  is  the  man  who  with  the  sound  of  song 
Can  charm  away  the  heartache,  and  forget 
The  frost  of  Penury,  and  the  stings  of  Wrong, 
And  drown  the  fatal  whisper  of  Regret ! 
Darker  are  the  abodes 

Of  Kings,  tho'  his  be  poor, 
While  Fancies,  like  the  Gods, 
Pass  thro'  his  door. 

Singing  thou  scalest  Heaven  upon  thy  wings, 

Thou  liftest  a  glad  heart  into  the  skies ; 
He  maketh  his  own  sunrise,  while  he  sings, 
And  turns  the  dusty  Earth  to  Paradise ; 
.1  see  thee  sail  along 

Far  up  the  sunny  streams, 
Unseen,  I  hear  his  song, 
I  see  his  dreams. 


A  GLEE   FOR  WINTER 


By  Alfred  Domett 

ENCE,    rude     Winter!    crabbed 

old  fellow, 

Never  merry,  never  mellow  ! 
Well-a  day  !   in  rain  and  snow 
What     will    keep     one's     heart 

aglow  ? 
Groups    of    kinsmen,    old    and 

young, 

Oldest  they  old  friends  among ; 
Groups  of  friends,  so  old  and  true 
That  they  seem  our  kinsmen  too ; 
These  all  merry  all  together 
Charm  away  chill  Winter  weather. 

What  will  kill  this  dull  old  fellow  ? 
Ale  that's  bright,  and  wine  that's  mellow ! 
Dear  old  songs  for  ever  new ; 
Some  true  love,  and  laughter  too ; 
Pleasant  wit,  and  harmless  fun, 
And  a  dance  when  day  is  done. 
Music,  friends  so  true  and  tried, 
Whisper'd  love  by  warm  fireside, 
Mirth  at  all  times  all  together, 
Makes  sweet  May  of  Winter  weather. 


53 


HOME-THOUGHTS   FROM 
ABROAD 

By  Robert  Browning 

I 

IH,  to  be   in   England   now   that 

April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 
sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the 

brush-wood  sheaf 
Round   the  elm-tree  bole  are  in 

tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now  ! 

II 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  ! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms    and    dewdrops  —  at    the    bent    spray's 

edge  — 
That's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice 

over 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew,. 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower, 
Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower ! 


54 

BY   THE   FIRESIDE 

By  Robert  Browning 

TURN,    and    we    stand    in    the 

heart  of  things ; 
The     woods     are     round     us 

heaped  and  dim  ; 
From   slab  to   slab   how    it    slips 

and  springs, 
The    thread    of    water    single 

and  slim 
Through  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings ! 

Does  it  feed  the  little  lake  below  ? 

That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella ;  see  in  the  evening  glow, 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads  charge 
When  Alp  meets  heaven  in  snow ! 

On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up  rock ; 

And  a  path  is  kept  'twixt  the  gorge  and  it 
By  boulder-stones  where  lichens  mock 

The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small  ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block. 

Oh  the  sense  of  the  yellow  mountain-flowers 
And  thorny  balls,  each  three  in  one, 

The  chestnuts  throw  on  our  path  in  showers  ! 
For  the  drop  of  the  woodland  fruit  's  begun, 

These  early  November  hours, 


55 


That  crimson  the  creeper's  leaf  across 
Like  a  splash  of  blood,  intense,  abrupt, 

O'er  a  shield  else  gold  from  rim  to  boss, 
And  lay  it  for  show  on  the  fairy-cupped 

Elf-needled  mat  of  moss, 

By  the  rose-flesh  mushrooms,  undivulged 
Last  evening  —  nay,  in  to-day's  first  dew 

Yon  sudden  coral  nipple  bulged, 

Where  a  freaked  fawn-colored  flaky  crew 

Of  toad-stools  peep  indulged. 


And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 

And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at  times ; 
The  place  is  silent  and  aware ; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes, 
But  that  is  its  own  affair. 


PIPPA   PASSES 

(From  "Pippa  Passes  ") 

By  Robert  Browning 

DAY! 
Faster  and  more  fast, 
O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  last ; 
Boils,  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim 
Where  spurting  and  suppressed  it  lay, 
For  not  a  froth-flake  touched  the  rim 
Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  gray 
Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away ; 


But  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled, 
Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  suppressed, 
Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 
Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed 
the  world. 


THE   IRISH  WOLF-HOUND 

(From  "The  Foray  of  Con  O'Donnell") 

By  Dems  Florence  MacCarthy 

|S  fly  the  shadows  o'er  the  grass, 
He  flies  with  step  as  light  and 

sure, 
He  hunts  the  wolf  through  Tos- 

tan  pass, 
And   starts  the  deer  by  Lisa- 

noure. 
The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells, 

O  Con  !  lus  not  a  sweeter  sound 
Than  when  along  the  valley  swells 

The  cry  of  John  Mac  DonnelFs  hound. 

His  stature  tall,  his  body  long, 

His  back  like  night,  his  breast  like  snow, 
His  fore-leg  pillar-like  and  strong, 

His  hind-leg  like  a  bended  bow ; 
Rough  curling  hair,  head  long  and  thin, 

His  ear  a  leaf  so  small  and  round  ; 
Not  Bran,  the  favorite  dog  of  Fin, 

Could  rival  John  Mac  Donnell's  hound. 


57 

THE  FROSTED  PANE 

By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 

NE    night    came    Winter    noise- 
lessly and  leaned 
Against  my  window-pane. 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  his  heart 

convened 
The  ghosts  of  all  his  slain. 

ephemera,  and  stars  of  earth, 
And  fugitives  of  grass,  — 

White  spirits  loosed  from  bonds  of  mortal  birth, 
He  drew  them  on  the  glass. 


AUTOCHTHON 

By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 

I  AM  the  spirit  astir 
To  swell  the  grain, 
When  fruitful  sons  confer 
With  laboring  rain  ; 
I  am  the  life  that  thrills 
In  branch  and  bloom ; 
I  am  the  patience  of  abiding  hills, 
The  promise  masked  in  doom. 

When  the  sombre  lands  are  wrung, 

And  storms  are  out, 
And  giant  woods  give  tongue, 

I  am  the  shout ; 


And  when  the  earth  would  sleep, 

Wrapped  in  her  snows, 
I  am  the  infinite  gleam  of  eyes  that  keep 

The  post  of  her  repose. 

I  am  the  hush  of  calm, 

I  am  the  speed, 
The  flood-tide's  triumphing  psalm, 

The  marsh-pool's  heed ; 
I  work  in  the  rocking  roar 

Where  cataracts  fall ; 
I  flash  in  the  prismy  fire  that  dances  o'er 

The  dew's  ephemeral  ball. 

I  am  the  voice  of  wind 

And  wave  and  tree, 
Of  stern  desires  and  blind, 

Of  strength  to  be  ; 
I  am  the  cry  by  night 

At  point  of  dawn, 
The  summoning  bugle  from  the  unseen  height, 

In  cloud  and  doubt  withdrawn. 

I  am  the  strife  that  shapes 

The  stature  of  man, 
The  pang  no  hero  escapes, 

The  blessing,  the  ban  ; 
I  am  the  hammer  that  moulds 

The  iron  of  our  race, 

The  omen  of  God  in  our  blood  that  a  people  be- 
holds, 

The  foreknowledge  veiled  in  our  face. 


59 

THE   HAWKBIT 

By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 

O  W  sweetly  on  the  autumn  scene, 
When    haws    are   red   amid   the 

green, 
The  hawkbit  shines  with  face  of 

cheer, 
The    favorite    of    the    faltering 

year! 

When  days  grow  short  and  nights  grow  cold, 
How  fairly  gleams  its  eye  of  gold 
On  pastured  field  and  grassy  hill, 
Along  the  roadside  and  the  rill ! 

It  seems  the  spirit  of  a  flower, 
This  offspring  of  the  autumn  hour, 
Wandering  back  to  earth  to  bring 
Some  kindly  afterthought  of  spring. 

A  dandelion's  ghost  might  so 
Amid  Elysian  meadows  blow, 
Become  more  fragile  and  more  fine 
Breathing  the  atmosphere  divine. 


6o 


THE    FLIGHT   OF   THE   GEESE 

By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 

HEAR   the  low  wind  wash  the 

softening  snow, 
The    low    tide   loiter    down    the 

shore.     The  night, 
Full    filled    with    April   forecast, 

hath  no  light. 
The  salt  wave  on  the  sedge-flat 

pulses  slow. 

Through  the  hid  furrows  lisp  in  murmurous  flow 
The  thaw's  shy  ministers  ;  and  hark  !     The  height 
Of  heaven  grows  weird  and  loud  with  unseen  flight 
Of  strong  hosts  prophesying  as  they  go  ! 
High  through  the  drenched  and  hollow  night  their 

wings 

Beat  northward  hard  on  winter's  trail.     The  sound 
Of  their  confused  and  solemn  voices,  borne 
Athwart  the  dark  to  their  long  arctic  morn, 
Comes  with  a  sanction  and  an  awe  profound, 
A  boding  of  unknown,  foreshadowed  things. 


WALDEINSAMKEIT 

By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

I  DO  not  count  the  hours  I  spend 
In  wandering  by  the  sea ; 
The  forest  is  my  loyal  friend, 
Like  God  it  useth  me. 


6i 


In  plains  that  room  for  shadows  make 

Of  skirting  hills  to  lie, 
Bound  in  by  streams  which  give  and  take 

Their  colors  from  the  sky ; 

Or  on  the  mountain-crest  sublime, 

Or  down  the  oaken  glade, 
O  what  have  I  to  do  with  time  ? 

For  this  the  day  was  made. 

Cities  of  mortals  woe-begone 

Fantastic  care  derides, 
But  in  the  serious  landscape  lone 

Stern  benefit  abides. 

Sheen  will  tarnish,  honey  cloy, 
And  merry  is  only  a  mask  of  sad, 

But,  sober  on  a  fund  of  joy, 
The  woods  at  heart  are  glad. 

There  the  great  Planter  plants 

Of  fruitful  worlds  the  grain, 
And  with  a  million  spells  enchants 

The  souls  that  walk  in  pain. 

Still  on  the  seeds  of  all  he  made 

The  rose  of  beauty  burns  j 
Through  times  that  wear  and  forms  that  fade, 

Immortal  youth  returns. 

The  black  ducks  mounting  from  the  lake, 

The  pigeon  in  the  pines, 
The  bittern's  boom,  a  desert  make 

Which  no  false  art  refines. 


62 


Down  in  yon  watery  nook, 

Where  bearded  mists  divide, 
The  gray  old  gods  whom  Chaos  knew, 

The  sires  of  Nature,  hide. 

Aloft,  in  secret  veins  of  air, 

Blows  the  sweet  breath  of  song, 

O,  few  to  scale  those  uplands  dare, 
Though  they  to  all  belong ! 

See  thou  bring  not  to  field  or  stone 
The  fancies  found  in  books ; 

Leave  authors'  eyes,  and  fetch  your  own, 
To  brave  the  landscape's  looks. 

Oblivion  here  thy  wisdom  is, 
Thy  thrift,  the  sleep  of  cares  ; 

For  a  proud  idleness  like  this 
Crowns  all  thy  mean  affairs. 

THE   HUMBLE-BEE 

By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

BURLY,  dozing  humble-bee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek ; 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid-zone  ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines  j 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 


Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere  ; 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air ; 
Voyager  of  light  and  noon  ; 
Epicurean  of  June ; 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum,  — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

And  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tints  the  human  countenance 

With  a  color  of  romance, 

And  infusing  subtle  heats, 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets, 

Thou,  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 

With  thy  mellow,  breezy  bass. 

Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen  ; 


64 


But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 
Maple-sap  and  daffbdels, 
Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 
Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among ; 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher  ! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chafF,  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep ; 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

SONG  OF  NATURE 

By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 

MINE  are  the  night  and  morning, 
The  pits  of  air,  the  gulf  of  space, 
The  sportive  sun,  the  gibbous  moon, 
The  innumerable  days. 


I  hide  in  the  solar  glory, 
I  am  dumb  in  the  pealing  song, 
I  rest  on  the  pitch  of  the  torrent, 
In  slumber  I  am  strong. 

No  numbers  have  counted  my  tallies, 
No  tribes  my  house  can  fill, 
I  sit  by  the  shining  Fount  of  Life 
And  pour  the  deluge  still ; 

And  ever  by  delicate  powers 
Gathering  along  the  centuries 
From  race  on  race  the  rarest  flowers, 
My  wreath  shall  nothing  miss. 

And  many  a  thousand  summers 
My  gardens  ripened  well, 
And  light  from  meliorating  stars 
With  firmer  glory  fell. 

1  wrote  the  past  in  characters 
Of  rock  and  fire  the  scroll, 
The  building  in  the  coral  sea, 
The  planting  of  the  coal. 

And  thefts  from  satellites  and  rings 
And  broken  stars  I  drew, 
And  out  of  spent  and  aged  things 
I  formed  the  world  anew ; 

What  time  the  gods  kept  carnival, 
Tricked  out  in  star  and  flower, 
And  in  cramp  elf  and  saurian  forms 
They  swathed  their  too  much  power. 


66 


Time  and  Thought  were  my  surveyors, 
They  laid  their  courses  well, 
They  boiled  the  sea,  and  piled  the  layers 
Of  granite,  marl  and  shell. 

But  he,  the  man-child  glorious,  — 
Where  tarries  he  the  while  ? 
The  rainbow  shines  his  harbinger, 
The  sunset  gleams  his  smile. 

My  boreal  lights  leap  upward, 
Forthright  my  planets  roll, 
And  still  the  man-child  is  not  born, 
The  summit  of  the  whole. 

Must  time  and  tide  forever  run  ? 
Will  never  my  winds  go  sleep  in  the  west  ? 
Will  never  my  wheels  which  whirl  the  sun 
And  satellites  have  rest  ? 

Too  much  of  donning  and  doffing, 
Too  slow  the  rainbow  fades, 
I  weary  of  my  robe  of  snow, 
My  leaves  and  my  cascades ; 

I  tire  of  globes  and  races, 
Too  long  the  game  is  played  ; 
What  without  him  is  summer's  pomp, 
Or  winter's  frozen  shade  ? 

I  travail  in  pain  for  him, 
My  creatures  travail  and  wait ; 
His  couriers  come  by  squadrons, 
He  comes  not  to  the  gate. 


67 


Twice  I  have  moulded  an  image, 
And  thrice  outstretched  my  hand, 
Made  one  of  day  and  one  of  night 
And  one  of  the  salt  sea-sand. 

One  in  a  Judaean  manger, 

And  one  by  Avon  stream, 

One  over  against  the  mouths  of  Nile, 

And  one  in  the  Academe. 

I  moulded  kings  and  saviors, 
And  bards  o'er  kings  to  rule ;  — 
But  fell  the  starry  influence  short, 
The  cup  was  never  full. 

Yet  whirl  the  glowing  wheels  once  more, 
And  mix  the  bowl  again ; 
Seethe,  Fate  !   the  ancient  elements, 
Heat,  cold,  wet,  dry,  and  peace,  and  pain. 

Let  war  and  trade  and  creeds  and  song 
Blend,  ripen  race  on  race, 
The  sunburnt  world  a  man  shall  breed 
Of  all  the  zones  and  countless  days. 

No  ray  is  dimmed,  no  atom  worn, 
My  oldest  force  is  good  as  new, 
And  the  fresh  rose  on  yonder  thorn 
Gives  back  the  bending  heavens  in  dew. 


68 


THE  JOYS   OF   THE   ROAD 

By  Bliss  Carman 

OW  the   joys    of  the    road    are 

chiefly  these : 

A  crimson   touch   on   the   hard- 
wood trees ; 


A   vagrant's   morning   wide   and 

blue, 

ly  fall,  when  the  wind  walks,  too ; 

A  shadowy  highway  cool  and  brown, 
Alluring  up  and  enticing  down 

From  rippled  water  to  dappled  swamp, 
From  purple  glory  to  scarlet  pomp; 

The  outward  eye,  the  quiet  will, 

And  the  striding  heart  from  hill  to  hill ; 

The  tempter  apple  over  the  fence; 

The  cobweb  bloom  on  the  yellow  quince; 

The  palish  asters  along  the  wood,  — 
A  lyric  touch  of  the  solitude ; 

An  open  hand,  an  easy  shoe, 

And  a  hope  to  make  the  day  go  through,  — 

Another  to  sleep  with,  and  a  third, 
To  wake  me  up  at  the  voice  of  a  bird ; 

The  resonant  far-listening  morn, 
And  the  hoarse-whisper  of  the  corn  ; 


69 

The  crickets  mourning  their  comrades  lost, 
In  the  night's  retreat  from  the  gathering  frost ; 

(Or  is  it  their  slogan,  plaintive  and  shrill, 
As  they  beat  on  their  corselets,  valiant  still  ?) 

A  hunger  fit  for  the  kings  of  the  sea, 
And  a  loaf  of  bread  for  Dickon  and  me  ; 

A  thirst  like  that  of  the  Thirsty  Sword, 
And  a  jug  of  cider  on  the  board ; 

An  idle  noon,  a  bubbling  spring, 
The  sea  in  the  pine-tops  murmuring; 

A  scrap  of  gossip  at  the  ferry ; 

A  comrade  neither  glum  nor  merry, 

Asking  nothing,  revealing  naught, 

But  minting  his  words  from  a  fund  of  thought, 

A  keeper  of  silence  eloquent, 
Needy,  yet  rpyally  well  content, 

Of  the  mettled  breed,  yet  abhorring  strife, 
And  full  of  the  mellow  juice  of  life, 

A  taster  of  wine,  with  an  eye  for  a  maid, 
Never  too  bold,  and  never  afraid, 

Never  heart-whole,  never  heart-sick, 
(These  are  the  things  I  worship  in  Dick) 

No  fidget  and  no  reformer,  just 

A  calm  observer  of  ought  and  must, 


7o 

A  lover  of  books,  but  a  reader  of  man, 
No  cynic  and  no  charlatan, 

Who  never  defers  and  never  demands, 

But,  smiling,  .takes  the  world  in  his  hands, — 

Seeing  it  good  as  when  God  first  saw 
And  gave  it  the  weight  of  his  will  for  law. 

And  O  the  joy  that  is  never  won, 

But  follows  and  follows  the  journeying  sun, 

By  marsh  and  tide,  by  meadow  and  stream, 
A  will-o'-the-wind,  a  light-o'-dream, 

Delusion  afar,  delight  anear, 

From  morrow  to  morrow,  from  year  to  year, 

A  jack-o'-lantern,  a  fairy  fire, 
A  dare,  a  bliss,  and  a  desire ! 

The  racy  smell  of  the  forest  loam, 

When  the  stealthy,  sad-heart  leaves  go  home ; 

(O  leaves,  O  leaves,  I  am  one  with  you, 

Of  the  mould  and  the  sun  and  the  wind  and  the  dew!) 

The  broad  gold  wake  of  the  afternoon ; 
The  silent  fleck  of  the  cold  new  moon ; 

The  sound  of  the  hollow  sea's  release 
From  stormy  tumult  to  starry  peace ; 

With  only  another  league  to  wend ; 

And  two  brown  arms  at  the  journey's  end ! 

These  are  the  joys  of  the  open  road  — 
For  him  who  travels  without  a  load. 


71 

A  MORE  ANCIENT   MARINER 

By  Bliss  Carman 

HE  swarthy  bee  is  a  buccaneer, 

A  burly  velveted  rover, 
Who  loves  the  booming  wind 

in  his  ear 
As  he  sails  the  seas  of  clover. 

A  waif  of  the  goblin  pirate  crew, 
With  not  a  soul  to  deplore  him, 
He  steers  for  the  open  verge  of  blue 
With  the  filmy  world  before  him. 

His  flimsy  sails  abroad  on  the  wind 

Are  shivered  with  fairy  thunder; 
On  a  line  that  sings  to  the  light  of  his  wings 

He  makes  for  the  lands  of  wonder. 

He  harries  the  ports  of  the  Hollyhocks, 

And  levies  on  poor  Sweetbrier; 
He  drinks  the  whitest  wine  of  Phlox, 

And  the  Rose  is  his  desire. 

He  hangs  in  the  Willows  a  night  and  a  day ; 

He  rifles  the  Buckwheat  patches ; 
Then  battens  his  store  of  pelf  galore 

Under  the  tautest  hatches. 

He  woos  the  Poppy  and  weds  the  Peach, 

Inveigles  Daffodilly, 
And  then  like  a  tramp  abandons  each 

For  the  gorgeous  Canada  Lily. 


72 

There's  not  a  soul  in  the  garden  world 

But  wishes  the  day  were  shorter, 
When  Mariner  B.  puts  out  to  sea 

With  the  wind  in  the  proper  quarter. 

Or,  so  they  say  !      But  I  have  my  doubts ; 

For  the  flowers  are  only  human, 
And  the  valor  and  gold  of  a  vagrant  bold 

Were  always  dear  to  woman. 

He  dares  to  boast,  along  the  coast, 
The  beauty  of  Highland  Heather,  — 

How  he  and  she,  with  night  on  the  sea, 
Lay  out  on  the  hills  together. 

He  pilfers  from  every  port  of  the  wind, 

From  April  to  golden  autumn ; 
But  the  thieving  ways  of  his  mortal  days 

Are  those  his  mother  taught  him. 

His  morals  are  mixed,  but  his  will  is  fixed ; 

He  prospers  after  his  kind, 
And  follows  an  instinct,  compass-sure, 

The  philosophers  call  blind. 

And  that  is  why,  when  he  comes  to  die, 

He'll  have  an  easier  sentence 
Than  some  one  I  know  who  thinks  just  so, 

And  then  leaves  room  for  repentance. 

He  never  could  box  the  compass  round ; 

He  doesn't  know  port  from  starboard  ; 
But  he  knows  the  gates  of  the  Sundown  Straits, 

Where  the  choicest  goods  are  harbored. 


73 


He  never  could  see  the  Rule  of  Three, 
But  he  knows  the  rule  of  thumb 

Better  than  Euclid's,  better  than  yours, 
Or  the  teachers'  yet  to  come. 

He  knows  the  smell  of  the  hydromel 

As  if  two  and  two  were  five ; 
And  hides  it  away  for  a  year  and  a  day 

In  his  own  hexagonal  hive. 

Out  in  the  day,  hap-hazard,  alone, 
Booms  the  old  vagrant  hummer, 

With  only  his  whim  to  pilot  him 

Through  the  splendid  vast  of  summer. 

He  steers  and  steers  on  the  slant  of  the  gale, 
Like  the  fiend  or  Vanderdecken ; 

And  there's  never  an  unknown  course  to  sail 
But  his  crazy  log  can  reckon. 

He  drones  along  with  his  rough  sea-song 

And  the  throat  of  a  salty  tar, 
This  devil-may-care,  till  he  makes  his  lair 

By  the  light  of  a  yellow  star. 

He  looks  like  a  gentleman,  lives  like  a  lord, 
And  works  like  a  Trojan  hero ; 

Then  loafs  all  winter  upon  his  hoard, 
With  the  mercury  at  zero. 


74 

THE   SONG   THE  ORIOLE  SINGS 

By  William  Dean  Howells 

|HERE  is  a  bird  that  comes  and 

sings 

In  a  professor's  garden-trees  ; 
Upon  the  English  oak  he  swings, 
And  tilts   and   tosses    in    the 
breeze. 

I  know  his  name,  I  know  his  note, 
That  so  with  rapture  takes  my  soul ; 

Like  flame  the  gold  beneath  his  throat, 
His  glossy  cope  is  black  as  coal. 

O  oriole,  it  is  the  song 

You  sang  me  from  the  cottonwood, 
Too  young  to  feel  that  I  was  young, 

Too  glad  to  guess  if  life  were  good. 

And  while  I  hark,  before  my  door, 

Adown  the  dusty  Concord  Road, 
The  blue  Miami  flows  once  more 

As  by  the  cottonwood  it  flowed. 

And  on  the  bank  that  rises  steep, 

And  pours  a  thousand  tiny  rills, 
From  death  and  absence  laugh  and  leap 

My  school-mates  to  their  flutter-mills. 


75 


The  blackbirds  jangle  in  the  tops 

Of  hoary-antlered  sycamores  ; 
The  timorous  killdee  starts  and  stops 

Among  the  drift-wood  on  the  shores. 

Below,  the  bridge  —  a  noonday  fear 
Of  dust  and  shadow  shot  with  sun  — 

Stretches  its  gloom  from  pier  to  pier, 
Far  unto  alien  coasts  unknown. 

And  on  these  alien  coasts,  above, 

Where  silver  ripples  break  the  stream's 

Long  blue,  from  some  roof-sheltering  grove 
A  hidden  parrot  scolds  and  screams. 

Ah,  nothing,  nothing  !   Commonest  things  : 
A  touch,  a  glimpse,  a  sound,  a  breath  — 

It  is  a  song  the  oriole  sings  — 
And  all  the  rest  belongs  to  death. 

But  oriole,  my  oriole, 

Were  some  bright  seraph  sent  from  bliss 
With  songs  of  heaven  to  win  my  soul 

From  simple  memories  such  as  this, 

What  could  he  tell  to  tempt  my  ear 

From  you  ?     What  high  thing  could  there  be, 
So  tenderly  and  sweetly  dear 

As  my  lost  boyhood  is  to  me  ? 


76 

APRIL 

By  Lloyd  Mifflin 
(From  "The  Fields  of  Dawn.") 

|MONG  the  maple-buds  we  hear 

the  tones 

Of   April's    earliest    bees,    al- 
though the  days 
Seemed   ruled  by  Mars.     The 

veil  of  gathering  haze 
Spread    round    the    silent   hills 

in  bluest  zones. 

Deep  in  the  pines  the  breezes  stirred  the  cones, 
As  on  we  strolled  within  the  wooded  ways, 
There  where  the  brook,  transilient,  softly  plays 
With  muffled  plectrum  on  her  harp  of  stones  ; 
Onward  we  pushed  amid  the  yielding  green 
And  light  rebounding  of  the  cedar  boughs, 
Until  we  heard  —  the  forest  lanes  along, 
Above  the  lingering  drift  of  latest  snows  — 

The  Thrush  outpour,  from  coverts  still  unseen, 
His  rare  ebulliency  of  liquid  song! 


77 

SUMMER 

By  Lloyd  Mifflin 

(From  "  The  Fields  of  Dawn"  ) 

|OW  well  we  loved,  in   Summer 

solitude 
To  stroll  on  lonely  ridges  far 

away, 
Where    beeches,    with     their 

boles  of  Quaker  gray, 
Murmured  at  times   a  sylvan 

interlude  ! 

We  heard  each  songster  warble  near  her  brood, 
And  from  the  lowland  where  the  mowers  lay 
Came  now  and  then  faint  fragrance  from  the  hay, 
That  touched  the  heart  to  reminiscent  mood. 
We  peered  down  wooded  steeps,  and  saw  the  sun 
Shining  in  front,  tip  all  the  grape-vines  wild, 
And   edge   with    light    the    bowlders'    lichened 

groups ; 

While,  deep  within  the  gorge,  the  tinkling  run 
Coiled    through    the    hollows  with    its  silvered 

loops 
Down  to  the  waiting  River,  thousand-isled. 


AUTUMN 


By  Lloyd  Mifflin 

(From  "  The  Fields  of  Dawn") 

HE    nearest   woodlands   wore    a 

misty  veil  ; 
From  phantom  trees  we  saw 

the  last  leaf  float  ; 
The    hills    though    near    us 

seemed  to  lie  remote, 
Wrapped  in   a   balmy  vapor, 

golden  —  pale. 
From  somewhere  hidden  in  the  dreamy  dale  — 
Latona's  sorrow  yet  within  her  note  — 
Reft  of  her  comrades,  o'er  the  stubbled  oat 
We  heard  the  calling  of  the  lonely  quail. 
In  the  bare  corn-field  stalked  the  silent  crow  ; 
Too  faint  the  breeze  to  make  the  grasses  sigh, 
And  not  one  carol  came  from  out  the  sky  ; 
But  o'er  the  golden  gravelly  levels  low, 

The  brook,  loquacious,  still  went  lilting  by 
As  liquidly  as  Lara,  long  ago. 


79 


GOLDEN    CROWN    SPARROW    OF 
ALASKA 

By  John  Burroughs 

H,  minstrel  of  these  borean  hills, 
Where    twilight     hours     are 

long, 
I  would  my  boyhood's  fragrant 

days 

Had    known     thy     plaintive 
song; 

Had  known  thy  vest  of  ashen  gray, 

Thy  coat  of  drab  and  brown, 
The  bands  of  jet  upon  thy  head 

That  clasp  thy  golden  crown. 

We  heard  thee  in  the  cold  White  Pass, 

Where  cloud  and  mountain  meet, 
Again  where  Muir's  great  glacier  shone 

Far  spread  beneath  our  feet. 

I  bask  me  now  on  emerald  heights 

To  catch  thy  faintest  strain, 
But  cannot  tell  if  in  thy  lay 

Be  more  of  joy  or  pain. 

Far  off  behold  the  snow-white  peaks 

Athwart  the  sea's  blue-shade ; 
Anear  there  rise  green  Kadiak  hills, 

Wherein  thy  nest  is  made. 


8o 


I  hear  the  wild  bee's  mellow  chord, 

In  airs  that  swim  above  ; 
The  lesser  hermit  tunes  his  flute 

To  solitude  and  love. 

But  thou,  sweet  singer  of  the  wild, 
I  give  more  heed  to  thee ; 

Thy  wistful  note  of  fond  regret 
Strikes  deeper  chords  in  me. 

Farewell,  dear  bird  !   I  turn  my  face 
To  other  skies  than  thine  — 

A  thousand  leagues  of  land  and  sea 
Between  thy  home  and  mine. 


TO   THE   LAPLAND   LONGSPUR 

By  John  Burroughs 
I 

|H,  thou  northland  bobolink, 

Looking  over  Summer's  brink 
Up  to  Winter,  worn  and  dim, 
Peering    down    from    mountain 

rim, 

Something  takes  me  in  thy  note, 
Quivering   wing,   and   bubbling 

throat ; 

Something  moves  me  in  thy  ways  — 
Bird,  rejoicing  in  thy  days, 
In  thy  upward-hovering  flight. 
In  thy  suit  of  black  and  white, 


8i 


Chestnut  cape  and  circled  crown, 
In  thy  mate  of  speckled  brown; 
Surely  I  may  pause  and  think 
Of  my  boyhood's  bobolink. 

II 

Soaring  over  meadows  wild 
(Greener  pastures  never  smiled)  ; 
Raining  music  from  above, 
Full  of  rapture,  full  of  love  ; 
Frolic,  gay  and  debonair, 
Yet  not  all  exempt  from  care, 
For  thy  nest  is  in  the  grass, 
And  thou  worriest  as  I  pass  : 
But  nor  hand  nor  foot  of  mine 
Shall  do  harm  to  thee  or  thine ; 
I,  musing,  only  pause  to  think 
Of  my  boyhood's  bobolink. 

Ill 

But  no  bobolink  of  mine 
Ever  sang  o'er  mead  so  fine, 
Starred  with  flowers  of  every  hue, 
Gold  and  purple,  white  and  blue; 
Painted-cup,  anemone, 
Jacob's-ladder,  fleur-de-lis, 
Orchid,  harebell,  shooting-star, 
Crane's-bill,  lupine,  seen  afar, 
Primrose,  poppy,  saxifrage, 
Pictured  type  on  Nature's  page  — 


82 


These  and  others   here  unnamed, 
In  northland  gardens,  yet  untamed, 
Deck  the  fields  where  thou  dost  sing, 
Mounting  up  on  trembling  wing  ; 
While  in  wistful  mood  I  think 
Of  my  boyhood's  bobolink. 

IV 

On  Unalaska's  emerald  lea, 
On  lonely  isles  in  Bering  Sea, 
On  far  Siberia's  barren  shore, 
On  north  Alaska's  tundra  floor, 
At  morn,  at  noon,  in  pallid  night, 
We  heard  thy  song  and  saw  thy  flight, 
While  I,  sighing,  could  but  think 
Of  my  boyhood's  bobolink. 

UNALASKA,  July  18,  1899 


THE  CUP 

By  John  tfownsend  'Trowbridge 

THE  cup  I  sing  is  a  cup  of  gold, 
Many  and  many  a  century  old, 
Sculptured  fair,  and  over-filled 
With  wine  of  a  generous  vintage,  spilled 
In  crystal  currents  and  foaming  tides 
All  round  its  luminous,  pictured  sides. 


Old  Time  enamelled  and  embossed 

This  ancient  cup  at  an  infinite  cost. 

Its  frame  he  wrought  of  metal  that  run 

Red  from  the  furnace  of  the  sun. 

Ages  on  ages  slowly  rolled 

Before  the  glowing  mass  was  cold, 

And  still  he  toiled  at  the  antique  mould, — 

Turning  it  fast  in  his  fashioning  hand, 

Tracing  circle,  layer,  and  band, 

Carving  figures  quaint  and  strange, 

Pursuing,  through  many  a  wondrous  change, 

The  symmetry  of  a  plan  divine. 

At  last  he  poured  the  lustrous  wine, 

Crowned  high  the  radiant  wave  with  light, 

And  held  aloft  the  goblet  bright, 

Half  in  shadow,  and  wreathed  in  mist 

Of  purple,  amber,  and  amethyst. 

This  is  the  goblet  from  whose  brink 

All  creatures  that  have  life  must  drink : 

Foemen  and  lovers,  haughty  lord, 

And  sallow  beggar  with  lips  abhorred. 

The  new-born  infant,  ere  it  gain 

The  mother's  breast,  this  wine  must  drain. 

The  oak  with  its  subtile  juice  is  fed, 

The  rose  drinks  till  her  cheeks  are  red, 

And  the  dimpled,  dainty  violet  sips 

The  limpid  stream  with  loving  lips. 

It  holds  the  blood  of  sun  and  star, 

And  all  pure  essences  that  are  : 

No  fruit  so  high  on  the  heavenly  vine, 

Whose  golden  hanging  clusters  shine 


On  the  far-off  shadowy  midnight  hills, 

But  some  sweet  influence  it  distils 

That  slideth  down  the  silvery  rills. 

Here  Wisdom  drowned  her  dangerous  thought, 

The  early  gods  their  secrets  brought ; 

Beauty,  in  quivering  lines  of  light, 

Ripples  before  the  ravished  sight ; 

And  the  unseen  mystic  spheres  combine 

To  charm  the  cup  and  drug  the  wine. 

All  day  I  drink  of  the  wine,  and  deep 

In  its  stainless  waves  my  senses  steep ; 

All  night  my  peaceful  soul  lies  drowned 

In  hollows  of  the  cup  profound  ; 

Again  each  morn  I  clamber  up 

The  emerald  crater  of  the  cup, 

On  massive  knobs  of  jasper  stand 

And  view  the  azure  ring  expand  : 

I  watch  the  foam-wreaths  toss  and  swim 

In  the  wine  that  o'erruns  the  jewelled  rim  :  — 

Edges  of  chrysolite  emerge, 

Dawn-tinted,  from  the  misty  surge  : 

My  thrilled,  uncovered  front  I  lave, 

My  eager  senses  kiss  the  wave, 

And  drain,  with  its  viewless  draught,  the  lore 

That  kindles  the  bosom's  secret  core, 

And  the  fire  that  maddens  the  poet's  brain 

With  wild  sweet  ardor  and  heavenly  pain. 


85 

TROUTING 
By  John  fffwnsend 


ITH  slender  rod,  and  line,  and 
reel, 

And  feather-fly  with  sting  of 
steel, 

Whipping  the  brooks  down  sun- 
lit glades, 

Wading  the  streams  in  woodland 
shades, 


I  come  to  the  trouter's  paradise  : 
The  flashing  fins  leap  twice  or  thrice  : 
Then  idle  on  this  gray  bowlder  lie 
My  crinkled  line  and  colored  fly, 
While  in  the  foam-flecked,  glossy  pool 
The  shy  trout  lurk  secure  and  cool. 

A  rock-lined,  wood-embosomed  nook, — 
Dim  cloister  of  the  chanting  brook  ! 
A  chamber  within  the  channelled  hills, 
Where  the  cold  crystal  brims  and  spills, 
By  dark-browed  caverns  blackly  flows, 
Falls  from  the  cleft  like  crumbling  snows, 
And  purls  and  plashes,  breathing  round 
A  soft,  suffusing  mist  of  sound. 

Under  a  narrow  belt  of  sky 
Great  bowlders  in  the  torrent  lie, 
Huge  stepping-stones  where  Titans  cross ! 
Quaint  broideries  of  vines  and  moss, 


86 


Of  every  loveliest  hue  and  shape, 

With  tangle  and  braid  and  tassel  drape 

The  beetling  rocks,  and  veil  the  ledge, 

And  trail  long  fringe  from  the  cataract's  edge. 

A  hundred  rills  of  nectar  drip 

From  that  Olympian  beard  and  lip ! 

And,  see  !  far  on,  it  seems  as  if 

In  every  crevice  along  the  cliff 

Some  wild  plant  grew :  the  eye  discerns 

An  ivied  castle  :  feathery  ferns 

Nod  from  the  frieze,  and  tuft  the  tall 

Dismantled  turret  and  ruined  wall. 

Strange  gusts  from  deeper  solitudes 
Waft  pungent  odors  of  the  woods. 
The  small,  bee-haunted  basswood-blooms 
Drop  in  the  gorge  their  faint  perfumes. 
Here  all  the  wildwood  flowers  encamp, 
That  love  the  dimness  and  the  damp. 

High  overhead  the  blue  day  shines ; 

The  glad  breeze  swings  in  the  singing  pines. 

Somewhere  aloft  in  the  boughs  is  heard 

The  fine  note  of  some  warbling  bird. 

In  the  alders,  dank  with  noonday  dews, 

A  restless  cat-bird  darts  and  mews. 

Dear  world  !  let  summer  tourists  range 
Your  great  highways  in  quest  of  change, 
Go  seek  Niagara  and  the  sea,  — 
This  little  nook  sufficeth  me ! 


So  wild,  so  fresh,  so  solitary, — 

I  muse  in  its  green  sanctuary, 

And  breathe  into  my  inmost  sense 

A  pure,  sweet,  thrilling  influence, 

A  bliss  even  innocent  sport  would  stain, 

And  dear  old  Walton's  art  profane. 

Here,  lying  beneath  this  leaning  tree, 
On  the  soft  bank,  it  seems  to  me, 
The  winds  that  visit  this  lonely  glen 
Should  soothe  the  souls  of  sorrowing  men,- 
The  waters  over  these  ledges  curled 
Might  cool  the  heart  of  a  fevered  world ! 


THE   PEWEE 

By  John  tfownsend 


|HE   listening  Dryads  hushed  the 

woods  ; 
The    boughs    were    thick,   and 

thin  and  few 
The    golden    ribbons    fluttering 

through  ; 
Their     sun-embroidered,    leafy 

hoods 

The  lindens  lifted  to  the  blue  : 
Only  a  little  forest-brook 
The  farthest  hem  of  silence  shook  : 
When  in  the  hollow  shades  I  heard,  — 
Was  it  a  spirit,  or  a  bird  ? 


88 


Or,  strayed  from  Eden,  desolate, 
Some  Peri  calling  to  her  mate, 

Whom  nevermore  her  mate  would  cheer  ? 
"  Pe-ri  !  pe-ri  !  peer  !  " 

Through  rocky  clefts  the  brooklet  fell 

With  plashy  pour,  that  scarce  was  sound, 

But  only  quiet  less  profound, 
A  stillness  fresh  and  audible  : 

A  yellow  leaflet  to  the  ground 
Whirled  noiselessly  :  with  wing  of  gloss 
A  hovering  sunbeam  brushed  the  moss, 
And,  wavering  brightly  over  it, 
Sat  like  a  butterfly  alit : 
The  owlet  in  his  open  door 
Stared  roundly:  while  the  breezes  bore 

The  plaint  to  far-off  places  drear,  — 
"  Pe-ree  !  pe-ree  !  peer !  " 

To  trace  it  in  its  green  retreat 

I  sought  among  the  boughs  in  vain ; 

And  followed  still  the  wandering  strain, 
So  melancholy  and  so  sweet 

The  dim-eyed  violets  yearned  with  pain. 
'Twas  now  a  sorrow  in  the  air, 
Some  nymph's  immortalized  despair 
Haunting  the  woods  and  waterfalls ; 
And  now,  at  long,  sad  intervals, 
Sitting  unseen  in  dusky  shade, 
His  plaintive  pipe  some  fairy  played, 

With  long-drawn  cadence  thin  and  clear,  - 
u  Pe-wee  !  pe-wee  !  peer  !  " 


89 


Long-drawn  and  clear  its  closes  were, — 
As  if  the  hand  of  Music  through 
The  sombre  robe  of  Silence  drew 
A  thread  of  golden  gossamer  : 

So  pure  a  flute  the  fairy  blew. 
Like  beggared  princes  of  the  wood, 
In  silver  rags  the  birches  stood  ; 
The  hemlocks,  lordly  counsellors, 
Were  dumb ;  the  sturdy  servitors, 
In  beechen  jackets  patched  and  gray, 
Seemed  waiting  spellbound  all  the  day 
That  low,  entrancing  note  to  hear, — 
u  Pe-wee  !  pe-wee  !  peer  !  " 

I  quit  the  search,  and  sat  me  down 

Beside  the  brook,  irresolute, 

And  watched  a  little  bird  in  suit 
Of  sober  olive,  soft  and  brown, 

Perched  in  the  maple-branches,  mute : 
With  greenish  gold  its  vest  was  fringed, 
Its  tiny  cap  was  ebon-tinged, 
With  ivory  pale  its  wings  were  barred, 
And  its  dark  eyes  were  tender-starred. 
u  Dear  bird,"  I  said,  "  what  is  thy  name  ? 
And  thrice  the  mournful  answer  came, 

So  faint  and  far,  and  yet  so  near, — 
"  Pe-wee  !  pe-wee  !  peer  !  " 

For  so  I  found  my  forest  bird, — 
The  pewee  of  the  loneliest  woods, 
Sole  singer  in  these  solitudes, 

Which  never  robin's  whistle  stirred, 
Where  never  bluebird's  plume  intrudes. 


9° 


?uick  darting  through  the  dewy  morn, 
he  redstart  trilled  his  twittering  horn, 
And  vanished  in  thick  boughs  :  at  even, 
Like  liquid  pearls  fresh  showered  from  heaven, 
The  high  notes  of  the  lone  wood-thrush 
Fall  on  the  forest's  holy  hush  : 

But  thou  all  day  complainest  here,  — 
u  Pe-wee  !  pe-wee  !  peer !  " 

Hast  thou,  too,  in  thy  little  breast, 
Strange  longings  for  a  happier  lot, — 
For  love,  for  life,  thou  know'st  not  what,—— 

A  yearning,  and  a  vague  unrest, 

For  something  still  which  thou  hast  not  ?  — — 

Thou  soul  of  some  benighted  child 

That  perished,  crying  in  the  wild  ! 

Or  lost,  forlorn,  and  wandering  maid, 

By  love  allured,  by  love  betrayed, 

Whose  spirit  with  her  latest  sigh 

Arose,  a  little  winged  cry, 

Above  her  chill  and  mossy  bier  ! 

u  Dear  me  !  dear  me  !  dear  !  " 

Ah,  no  such  piercing  sorrow  mars 

The  pewee's  life  of  cheerful  ease  ! 

He  sings,  or  leaves  his  song  to  seize 
An  insect  sporting  in  the  bars 

Of  mild  bright  light  that  gild  the  trees : 

A  very  poet  he  !  For  him 
All  pleasant  places  still  and  dim  : 
His  heart,  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire, 
Burns  with  undying,  sweet  desire: 


91 


And  so  he  sings  ;  and  so  his  song, 
Though  heard  not  by  the  hurrying  throng, 
Is  solace  to  the  pensive  ear : 

"  Pewee  !  pewee  !  peer  !  " 


TO  THE   DANDELION 

By  James  Russell  Lowell 

EAR      common      flower,     that 

grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing   the    dusty    road  with 

harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full 

of  pride  uphold, 

Highrhearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 
Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease ; 

JTis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 
Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 


92 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time : 

Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 
That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above, 
Where   one  white  cloud   like  a  stray   lamb  doth 
move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with 

thee  j 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 
When     birds     and     flowers    and    I    were    happy 
peers. 


93 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 


THE   BIGLOW   PAPERS 

No.  6 
By  James  Russell  Lowell 

|,  COUNTRY-BORN  an'  bred, 

know  where  to  find 
Some  blooms  thet  make  the  sea- 
son suit  the  mind, 
An'  seem  to  metch  the  doubtin' 

bluebird's  notes, — 
Half-vent'rin'  liverworts  in  furry 

coats, 

Bloodroots,  whose  rolled-up  leaves  ef  you  oncurl, 
Each  on  'em's  cradle  to  a  baby-pearl, — 
But  these  are  jes'  Spring's  pickets ;  sure  ez  sin, 
The  rebble  frosts  '11  try  to  drive  'em  in  ; 
For  half  our  May's  so  awfully  like  May  n't, 
'Twould  rile  a  Shaker  or  an  evrige  saint  ; 
Though  I  own  up  I  like  our  back'ard  springs 
Thet  kind  o'  haggle  with  their  greens  an'  things, 


94 


An*  when  you  'mos  give  up,  'ithout  more  words 
Toss  the  fields  full  o'  blossoms,  leaves,  an'  birds : 
Thet's  Northun  natur'  slow  an'  apt  to  doubt, 
But  when  it  does  git  stirred,  ther'  's  no  gin-out ! 

Fust  come  the  blackbirds  clatt'rin'  in  tall  trees, 
An'  settlin'  things  in  windy  Congresses, — 
Queer  politicians,  though,  for  I'll  be  skinned 
Ef  all  on  'em  don't  head  aginst  the  wind. 
'Fore  long  the  trees  begin  to  show  belief, — 
The  maple  crimsons  to  a  coral-reef, 
Then  saffern  swarms  swing  off  from  all  the  willers 
So  plump  they  look  like  yaller  caterpillars, 
Then  gray  hossches'nuts  leetle  hands  unfold 
Softer'n  a  baby's  be  at  three  days  old : 
Thet's  robin-redbreast's  almanick ;  he  knows 
Thet  arter  this  ther's  only  blossom-snows  ; 
So,  choosin'  out  a  handy  crotch  an'  spouse, 
He  goes  to  plast'rin'  his  adobe  house. 

Then  seems  to  come  a  hitch,  —  things  lag  behind, 
Till  some  fine  mornin'  Spring  makes  up  her  mind, 
An'  ez,  when  snow-swelled  rivers  cresh  their  dams 
Heaped-up  with  ice  thet  dovetails  in  an'  jams, 
A  leak  comes  spirtin'  thru  some  pin-hole  cleft, 
Grows  stronger,  fercer,  tears  out  right  an'  left, 
Then  all  the  waters  bow  themselves  an'  come, 
Suddin,  in  one  gret  slope  o'  shedderin'  foam, 
Jes'  so  our  Spring  gits  everythin'  in  tune 
An'  gives  one  leap  from  April  into  June  : 
Then  all  comes  crowdin'  in  ;  afore  you  think, 
Young  oak-leaves  mist  the  side-hill  woods  with  pink; 


95 

The  catbird  in  the  laylock-bush  is  loud  ; 
The  orchards  turn  to  heaps  o'  rosy  cloud  ; 
Red-cedars  blossom  tu,  though  few  folks  know  it, 
An*  look  all  dipt  in  sunshine  like  a  poet ; 
The  lime-trees  pile  their  solid  stacks  o*  shade 
An'  drows'ly  simmer  with  the  bees'  sweet  trade ; 
In  ellum-shrouds  the  flashin'  hangbird  clings 
An'  for  the  summer  vy'ge  his  hammock  slings ; 
All  down  the  loose-walled  lanes  in  archin'  bowers 
The  barb'ry  droops  its  strings  o'  golden  flowers, 
Whose  shrinkin'  hearts  the  school-gals  love  to  try 
With  pins,  —  they'll  worry  yourn  so,  boys,  bimeby  ! 
But  I  don't  love  your  cat'logue  style,  —  do  you  ?  — 
Ez  ef  to  sell  off  Natur'  by  vendoo  ; 
One  word  with  blood  in  Ys  twice  ez  good  ez  two  : 
'NufF  sed,  June's  bridesman,  poet  o'  the  year, 
Gladness  on  wings,  the  bobolink,  is  here ; 
Half-hid  in  tip-top  apple-blooms  he  swings, 
Or  climbs  aginst  the  breeze  with  quiverin'  wings, 
Or,  givin'  way  to  Jt  in  a  mock  despair, 
Runs  down,  a  brook  o'  laughter,  thru  the  air. 


A 


DAYBREAK 

By  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 

WIND  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And   said,  u  O   mists,   make  room   for 
me." 


It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  u  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 


96 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  "  Awake  !  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest, "  Shout  ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !  " 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  "  O  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  the  farms,  u  O  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow  ;  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn." 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
"  Awake,  O  bell  !  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said, "  Not  yet !  in  quiet  lie." 

RAIN    IN   SUMMER 

By  Henry  JWadsworih  Longfellow 

OW  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 
After  the  dust  and  heat, 
In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 


In  the  narrow  lane, 
How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 
Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 
How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 
From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 


97 


Across  the  window  pane 

It  pours  and  pours ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a  muddy  tide, 

Like  a  river  down  the  gutter  roars 

The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 

At  the  twisted  brooks ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 

Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 

Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a  blessing  on  the  rain 

From  the  neighboring  school 

Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 

And  commotion  ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 

Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 

Ingulfs  them  in  its  whirling 

And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a  leopard's  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 

Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 

How  welcome  is  the  rain ! 


In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 

The  clover-scented  gale, 

And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 

That  he  sees  therein 

Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these, 

The  Poet  sees ! 

He  can  behold 

Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 

Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 

Scattering  everywhere 


99 

The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 

Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told,  — 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 

Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 

To  the  dreary  fountain-head 

Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 

Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange 

Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 

From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth 

Till  glimpses  more  sublime 

Of  things,  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  forevermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


IOO 


THE   BRIDGE 

By  Henry  Wadsworfh  Longfellow 

STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  mid- 
night, 
As    the    clocks    were  striking 

the  hour, 

And  the  moon  rose  o'er  the  city, 
Behind      the     dark      church- 
tower. 

I  saw  her  bright  reflection 

In  the  waters  under  me, 
Like  a  golden  goblet  falling 

And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 

Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 
The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 

Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 

The  wavering  shadows  lay, 
And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 

Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away, 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 

Rose  the  belated  tide, 
And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide. 


JOI  .  •  -     - 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 

Among  the  wooden  piers 
A  flood  of  thoughts  came  o'er  me 

That  rilled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  O  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I  had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight, 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  ! 

How  often,  O  how  often, 

I  had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 

Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O'er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless, 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care, 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I  could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me, 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea ; 
And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 

Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I  cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers, 

Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I  think  how  many  thousands 

Of  care-encumbered  men, 
Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow, 

Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 


102 

I  see  the  long  procession 

Still  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  young  heart  hot  and  restless, 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow ! 

And  for  ever  and  for  ever 
As  long  as  the  river  flows, 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions, 
As  long  as  life  has  woes  ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear, 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven, 
And  its  wavering  image  here. 


MY  AVIARY 

By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

HROUGH   my   north   window, 

in  the  wintry  weather, — 
My    airy    oriel    on    the    river 

shore,  — 
I  watch  the  sea-fowl  as  they  flock 

together 

Where  late  the  boatman  flashed 
his  dripping  oar. 

The  gull,  high  floating,  like  a  sloop  unladen, 
Lets  the  loose  water  waft  him  as  it  will ; 

The  duck,  round-breasted  as  a  rustic  maiden, 
Paddles  and  plunges,  busy,  busy  still. 


io3 

I  see  the  solemn  gulls  in  council  sitting 

On  some  broad  ice-floe,  pondering  long  and  late, 

While  overhead  the  home-bound  ducks  are  flitting, 
And  leave  the  tardy  conclave  in  debate, 

Those  weighty  questions  in  their  breasts  revolving 
Whose  deeper  meaning  science  never  learns, 

Till  at  some  reverend  elder's  look  dissolving, 
The  speechless  senate  silently  adjourns. 

But  when  along  the  waves  the  shrill  north-easter 
Shrieks  through  the   laboring  coaster's   shrouds 
"  Beware ! " 

The  pale  bird,  kindling  like  a  Christmas  feaster 
When  some   wild  chorus  shakes  the  vinous  air, 

Flaps  from  the  leaden  wave  in  fierce  rejoicing, 
Feels  heaven's   dumb  lightning  thrill  his  torpid 
nerves, 

Now  on  the  blast  his  whistling  plumage  poising, 
Now  wheeling,  whirling  in  fantastic  curves. 

Such  is  our  gull ;  a  gentleman  of  leisure, 

Less  fleshed  than  feathered ;  bagged  you'll  find 
him  such ; 

His  virtue  silence ;  his  employment  pleasure ; 
Not  bad  to  look  at,  and  not  good  for  much. 

What    of  our    duck  ?     He    has     some    highbred 

cousins,  — 
His    Grace    the    Canvas-back,    My    Lord    the 

Brant,  — 

Anas  and  Anser  —  both  served  up  by  dozens, 
At  Boston's  Rocker,  half-way  to  Nahant. 


io4 

As  for  himself,  he  seems  alert  and  thriving, 

Grubs  up  a  living  somehow  —  what,  who  knows  ? 
Crabs  ?    mussels  ?  weeds  ?  —  Look  quick  !   there's 

one  just  diving  ! 

Flop !    Splash  !  his  white  breast  glistens  —  down 
he  goes ! 

And  while  he's  under  —  just  about  a  minute  — 

I  take  advantage  of  the  fact  to  say 
His  fishy  carcase  has  no  virtue  in  it 

The  gunning  idiot's  worthless  hire  to  pay. 

He  knows   you  !     u  sportsmen  "     from  '  suburban 

alleys, 
Stretched    under     seaweed    in    the    treacherous 

punt; 
Knows  every  lazy,  shiftless  lout  that  sallies 

Forth  to  waste  powder  —  as  be  says,  to  "hunt." 

I  watch  you  with  a  patient  satisfaction, 

Well  pleased  to  discount  your  predestined  luck ; 

The  float  that  figures  in  your  sly  transaction 
Will  carry  back  a  goose,  but  not  a  duck. 

Shrewd  is  our  bird  ;  not  easy  to  outwit  him  ! 

Sharp  is  the  outlook  of  those  pin-head  eyes ; 
Still,  he  is  mortal  and  a  shot  may  hit  him, 

One  cannot  always  miss  him  if  he  tries. 

Look  !    there's    a    young    one,    dreaming   not    of 
danger ; 

Sees  a  flat  log  come  floating  down  the  stream ; 
Stares  undismayed  upon  the  harmless  stranger ; 

Ah  !  were  all  strangers  harmless  as  they  seem  ! 


Habet !  a  leaden  shower  his  breast  has  shattered  ; 

Vainly  he  flutters,  not  again  to  rise  ; 
His  soft  white  plumes  along  the  waves  are  scattered  ; 

Helpless  the  wing  that  braved  the  tempest  lies. 

He  sees  his  comrades  high  above  him  flying 
To  seek  their  nests  among  the  island  reeds  ; 

Strong  is  their  flight ;  all  lonely  he  is  lying 
Washed  by  the  crimsoned  water  as  he  bleeds. 

0  Thou  who  carest  for  the  falling  sparrow, 
Canst  Thou  the  sinless  sufferer's  pang  forget  ? 

Or  is  Thy  dread  account-book's  page  so  narrow 
Its  one  long  column  scores  Thy  creatures'  debt  ? 

Poor  gentle  guest,  by  nature  kindly  cherished, 
A  world  grows  dark  with  thee  in  blinding  death ; 

One  little  gasp  —  thy  universe  has  perished, 

Wrecked  by  the  idle  thief  who  stole  thy  breath ! 

Is  this  the  whole  sad  story  of  creation, 

Lived  by  its  breathing  myriads  o'er  and  o'er,  — 

One  glimpse  of  day,  then  black  annihilation, — 
A  sunlit  passage  to  a  sunless  shore  ? 

Give  back  our  faith,  ye  mystery-solving  lynxes  ! 

Robe  us  once  more  in  heaven-aspiring  creeds  ! 
Happier  was  dreaming  Egypt  with  her  sphynxes, 

The  stony  convent  with  its  cross  and  beads  ! 

How  often  gazing  where  a  bird  reposes, 

Rocked  on  the  wavelets,  drifting  with  the  tide, 

1  lose  myself  in  strange  metempsychosis 

And  float  a  sea-fowl  at  a  sea-fowl's  side. 


io6 


From  rain,  hail,  snow  in  feathery  mantle  muffled, 
Clear-eyed,  strong-limbed,  with  keenest  sense  to 

hear 

My  mate   soft   murmuring,  who,  with  plumes  un- 
ruffled, 
Where'er  I  wander  still  is  nestling  near ; 

The  great  blue  hollow  like  a  garment  o'er  me  ; 

Space  all  unmeasured,  unrecorded  time ; 
While  seen  with  inward  eye  moves  on  before  me 

Thought's  pictured  train  in  wordless  pantomime. 

A  voice  recalls  me.     From  my  window  turning 
I  find  myself  a  plumeless  biped  still ; 

No  beak,  no  claws,  no  sign  of  wings  discerning,  — 
In  fact  with  nothing  bird-like  but  my  quill. 

MIDSUMMER 

By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 

[ERE  !  sweep  these  foolish  leaves 
away, 

I  will  not  crush  my  brains  to- 
day ! 

Look  !  are  the  southern  curtains 
drawn  ? 

Fetch  me  a  fan,  and  so  begone ! 

Not  that,  the  palm-tree's  rustling  leaf 
Brought  from  a  parching  coral-reef! 
Its  breath  is  heated  ;  —  I  would  swing 
The  broad  gray  plumes,  —  the  eagle's  wing. 

I  hate  these  roses'  feverish  blood  !  — 
Pluck  me  a  half-blown  lily-bud, 


io7 

A  long-stemmed  lily  from  the  lake, 
Cold  as  a  coiling  water-snake. 

Rain  me  sweet  odors  on  the  air, 
And  wheel  me  up  my  Indian  chair, 
And  spread  some  book  not  overwise 
Flat  out  before  my  sleepy  eyes. 

—  Who  knows  it  not,  —  this  dead  recoil 
Of  weary  fibres  stretched  with  toil, — 
The  pulse  that  flutters  faint  and  low 
When  Summer's  seething  breezes  blow  ! 

O  Nature  !  bare  thy  loving  breast, 
And  give  thy  child  one  hour  of  rest, — 
One  little  hour  to  lie  unseen 
Beneath  thy  scarf  of  leafy  green  ! 

So,  curtained  by  a  singing  pine, 

Its  murmuring  voice  shall  blend  with  mine, 

Till,  lost  in  dreams,  my  faltering  lay 

In  sweeter  music  dies  away. 

TO   AN   INSECT 

By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

I  LOVE  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 
Wherever  thou  art  hid, 
Thou  testy  little  dogmatist, 
Thou  pretty  Katydid ! 
Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks, — 

Old  gentlefolks  are  they,  — 
Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 
In  such  a  solemn  way. 


io8 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid  ! 

I  know  it  by  the  trill 
That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 

So  petulant  and  shrill ; 
I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree, — 
A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids, — 

Do  Katydids  drink  tea  ? 

0  tell  me  where  did  Katy  live, 
And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 

And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked,  too  ? 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 

1  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 

Dear  me !   I'll  tell  you  all  about 

My  fuss  with  little  Jane, 
And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locks  of  black, 

Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue,  — 
Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 

What  did  poor  Katy  do  ? 

Ah  no  !  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still, 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  mossy  base 

And  thunder  down  the  hill, 


109 

Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word,  to  tell 
The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 

Whose  name  she  knows  so  well. 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun, 
Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice, 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid, 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 


THE  PLANTING   OF 
TREE 


THE    APPLE- 


By  William  Cullen  Bryant 

>ME,    let    us    plant    the    apple- 
tree. 
Cleave     the     tough     greensward 

with  the  spade  ; 

Wide  Jet  its  hollow  bed  be  made  ; 
There  gently  lay   the  roots,  and 

there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet, 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet ; 
So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 


no 


What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays  ; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest ; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-wind's  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard-row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors  ; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 


1 1 


Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage-hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view, 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew ; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day, 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still  ? 


112 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  little  apple-tree  ? 

"  Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree?" 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say  ; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them  : 

u  A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times ; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes, 

On  planting  the  apple-tree." 

THE  PATH 

By  William  Cullen  Bryant 

|HE    path    we    planned    beneath 

October's  sky, 
Along  the  hillside,  through  the 

woodland  shade, 
Is  finished  ;  thanks  to  thee,  whose 

kindly  eye 
Has   watched   me,  as   I    plied 

the  busy  spade ; 
Else  had  I  wearied,  ere  this  path  of  ours 
Had  pierced  the  woodland  to  its  inner  bowers. 

Yet,  'twas  a  pleasant  toil  to  trace  and  beat, 
Among  the  glowing  trees,  this  winding  way, 

While  the  sweet  autumn  sunshine,  doubly  sweet, 
Flushed  with  the  ruddy  foliage,  round  us  lay, 


As  if  some  gorgeous  cloud  of  morning  stood, 
In  glory,  mid  the  arches  of  the  wood. 

A  path  !  what  beauty  does  a  path  bestow 

Even  on  the  dreariest  wild  !   its  savage  nooks 

Seem  homelike  where  accustomed  footsteps  go, 
And  the  grim  rock  puts  on  familiar  looks. 

The   tangled   swamp,   through    which  a    pathway 
strays, 

Becomes  a  garden  with  strange  flowers  and  sprays. 

See  from  the  weedy  earth  a  rivulet  break 
And  purl  along  the  untrodden  wilderness ; 

There  the  shy  cuckoo  comes  his  thirst  to  slake, 
There  the  shrill  jay  alights  his  plumes  to  dress  ; 

And  there  the  stealthy  fox,  when  morn  is  gray, 

Laps  the  clear  stream  and  lightly  moves  away. 

But  let  a  path  approach  that  fountain's  brink, 
And  nobler  forms  of  life,  behold  !  are  there  : 

Boys  kneeling  with  protruded  lips  to  drink, 
And  slender  maids  that  homeward  slowly  bear 

The  brimming  pail,  and  busy  dames  that  lay 

Their  webs  to  whiten  in  the  summer  ray. 

Then  know  we  that  for  herd  and  flock  are  poured 
Those   pleasant   streams   that   o'er   the   pebbles 
slip; 

Those  pure  sweet  waters  sparkle  on  the  board ; 
Those  fresh  cool  waters  wet  the  sick  man's  lip  ; 

Those  clear  bright  waters  from  the  font  are  shed, 

In  dews  of  baptism,  on  the  infant's  head. 


What  different  steps  the  rural  footway  trace  ! 

The  laborer  afield  at  early  day  ; 
The  schoolboy  sauntering  with  uneven  pace  ; 

The  Sunday  worshipper  in  fresh  array ; 
And  mourner  in  the  weeds  of  sorrow  drest ; 
And,  smiling  to  himself,  the  wedding  guest. 

There  he  who  cons  a  speech  and  he  who  hums 
His  yet  unfinished  verses,  musing  walk. 

There,  with  her  little  brood,  the  matron  comes, 
To  break  the  spring  flower  from  its  juicy  stalk ; 

And  lovers,  loitering,  wonder  that  the  moon 

Has  risen  upon  their  pleasant  stroll  so  soon. 

Bewildered  in  vast  woods,  the  traveller  feels 
His  heavy  heart  grow  lighter,  if  he  meet 

The  traces  of  a  path,  and  straight  he  kneels, 
And  kisses  the  dear  print  of  human  feet, 

And  thanks  his  God,  and  journeys  without  fear, 

For  now  he  knows  the  abodes  of  men  are  near. 

Pursue  the  slenderest  path  across  the  lawn ; 

Lo  !  on  the  broad  highway  it  issues  forth, 
And,  blended  with  the  greater  track,  goes  on, 

Over  the  surface  of  the  mighty  earth, 
Climbs  hills  and  crosses  vales,  and  stretches  far, 
Through  silent  forests,  toward  the  evening  star  — 

And  enters  cities  murmuring  with  the  feet 
Of  multitudes,  and  wanders  forth  again, 

And  joins  the  climes  of  frost  to  climes  of  heat, 
Binds  East  to  West,  and  marries  main  to  main, 

Nor  stays  till  at  the  long-resounding  shore 

Of  the  great  deep,  where  paths  are  known  no  more. 


Oh,  mighty  instinct,  that  dost  thus  unite 

Earth's  neighborhoods  and  tribes   with  friendly 

bands, 
What  guilt  is  theirs  who,  in  their  greed  or  spite, 

Undo  thy  holy  work  with  violent  hands, 
And   post   their   squadrons,  nursed  in  war's  grim 

trade, 
To  bar  the  ways  for  mutual  succor  made  ! 

JUNE 

By  William  Cullen  Bryant 

GAZED   upon  the  glorious  sky 
And      the     green      mountains 

round, 
And  thought  that  when   I  came 

to  lie 

At  rest  within  the  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant,  that  in  flowery 

June, 
When  brooks  send  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain-turf  should  break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 

A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 
And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat  — 
Away  !  —  I  will  not  think  of  these  — 
Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 

Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 


n6 

And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 
Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 

There  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flowers 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale  close  beside  my  cell ; 

The  idle  butterfly 

Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife  bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts  at  noon 

Come  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know  that  I  no  more  should  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 


117 

These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
The  gladness  of  the  scene  ; 

Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
Is  that  his  grave  is  green  ; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear  again  his  living  voice. 


TO   A   WATERFOWL 

By    William  Cullen  Bryant 


HITHER,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with 

the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy   depths, 

dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ? 


Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 


u8 


There  is  a  Power  whose  care 

Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast,  — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air  — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 

At  that  far  height  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 

Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows :  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 

Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  has  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless   sky  thy  certain 

flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


AN   INVITATION   TO   THE 
COUNTRY 

By  William  Cullen  Bryant 

LREADY,  close  by  our  summer 

dwelling, 
The    Easter    sparrow    repeats 

her  song ; 
A  merry  warbler,  she  chides  the 

blossoms  — 

The   idle  blossoms   that   sleep 
so  long. 

The  bluebird  chants,  from  the  elm's  long  branches, 
A  hymn  to  welcome  the  budding  year. 

The  south  wind  wanders  from  field  to  forest, 
And  softly  whispers,  "  The  Spring  is  here." 

Come,  daughter  mine,  from  the  gloomy  city, 
Before  those  lays  from  the  elm  have  ceased ; 

The  violet  breathes,  by  our  door,  as  sweetly 
As  in  the  air  of  her  native  East. 

Though  many  a  flower  in  the  wood  is  waking, 

The  daffodil  is  our  doorside  queen  ; 
She  pushes  upward  the  sward  already, 

To  spot  with  sunshine  the  early  green. 

No  lays  so  joyous  as  these  are  warbled 
From  wiry  prison  in  maiden's  bower ; 

No  pampered  bloom  of  the  green-house  chamber 
Has  half  the  charm  of  the  lawn's  first  flower. 


120 


Yet  these  sweet  sounds  of  the  early  season, 
And  these  fair  sights  of  its  sunny  days, 

Are  only  sweet  when  we  fondly  listen, 
And  only  fair  when  we  fondly  gaze. 

There  is  no  glory  in  star  or  blossom 

Till  looked  upon  by  a  loving  eye ; 
There  is  no  fragrance  in  April  breezes 

Till  breathed  with  joy  as  they  wander  by. 

Come,  Julia  dear,  for  the  sprouting  willows, 
The  opening  flowers,  and  the  gleaming  brooks, 

And  hollows,  green  in  the  sun,  are  waiting 
Their  dower  of  beauty  from  thy  glad  looks. 


THE  GLADNESS   OF  NATURE 

By  William  Cullen  Bryant 


S  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad, 
When     our    mother     Nature 

laughs  around ; 

When  even  tne  deep  blue  heav- 
ens look  glad, 

And    gladness    breathes    from 
the  blossoming  ground  ? 


There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and  wren 
And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the  sky ; 

The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 


121 


The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright-green 
vale, 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 

There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower, 
There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 

There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,   and  a  smile  on  the 

flower, 
And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the  sea. 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray, 

On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles  ; 
Ay,  look,  and  he'll  smile  thy  gloom  away. 

TO    THE    SMALL  CELANDINE* 

By  William  Wordsworth 

ANSIES,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies, 
Let  them  live  upon  their  praises  ; 
Long  as  there's  a  sun  that  sets, 
Primroses  will  have  their  glory ; 
Long  as  there  are  violets, 
They  will  have  a  place  in  story : 
There's  a  flower  that   shall   be 

mine, 
'Tis  the  little  Celandine. 

Eyes  of  some  men  travel  far 
For  the  finding  of  a  star ; 

*  Common  Pilewort. 


122 

Up  and  down  the  heavens  they  go, 
Men  that  keep  a  mighty  rout ! 
I'm  as  great  as  they,  I  trow, 
Since  the  day  I  found  thee  out, 
Little  Flower  !  —  I'll  make  a  stir, 
Like  a  sage  astronomer. 

Modest,  yet  withal  an  Elf 
Bold,  and  lavish  of  thyself; 
Since  we  needs  must  first  have  met 
I  have  seen  thee,  high  and  low, 
Thirty  years  or  more,  and  yet 
'Twas  a  face  I  did  not  know ; 
Thou  hast  now,  go  where  I  may.. 
Fifty  greetings  in  a  day. 

Ere  a  leaf  is  on  a  bush, 
In  the  time  before  the  thrush 
Has  a  thought  about  her  nest, 
Thou  wilt  come  with  half  a  call, 
Spreading  out  thy  glossy  breast 
Like  a  careless  Prodigal ; 
Telling  tales  about  the  sun, 
When  we've  little  warmth,  or  none. 

Poets,  vain  men  in  their  mood  ! 
Travel  with  the  multitude  : 
Never  heed  them  ;   I  aver 
That  they  all  are  wanton  wooers ; 
But  the  thrifty  cottager, 
Who  stirs  little  out  of  doors, 
Joys  to  spy  thee  near  her  home ; 
Spring  is  coming,  Thou  art  come ! 


I23 

Comfort  have  thou  of  thy  merit, 
Kindly,  unassuming  Spirit ! 
Careless  of  thy  neighborhood, 
Thou  dost  show  thy  pleasant  face 
On  the  moor,  and  in  the  wood, 
In  the  lane  ;  —  there's  not  a  place, 
Howsoever  mean  it  be, 
But  'tis  good  enough  for  thee. 

Ill  befall  the  yellow  flowers, 
Children  of  the  flaring  hours  ! 
Buttercups,  that  will  be  seen, 
Whether  we  will  see  or  no ; 
Others,  too,  of  lofty  mien  ; 
They  have  done  as  worldlings  do, 
Taken  praise  that  should  be  thine, 
Little,  humble  Celandine  ! 

Prophet  of  delight  and  mirth, 
Ill-requited  upon  earth ; 
Herald  of  a  mighty  band, 
Of  a  joyous  train  ensuing, 
Serving  at  my  heart's  command, 
Tasks  that  are  no  tasks  renewing, 
I  will  sing,  as  doth  behove, 
Hymns  ir\  praise  of  what  I  love  ! 


I24 


THREE  YEARS   SHE  GREW   IN 
SUN   AND   SHOWER 

By  William  Wordsworth 


HREE   years    she    grew    in    sun 

and  shower 
Then   Nature  said,  "  A  lovelier 

flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown ; 
This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 
A  Lady  of  my  own. 


"Myself will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse :  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

"  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs ; 
And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 


"  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her ;  for  her  the  willow  bend ; 


125 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

u  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her ;  and  she  shall  lend  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

"  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 
Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell." 

Thus  Nature  spake  —  The  work  was  done  - 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm  and  quiet  scene; 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal, 

I  had  no  human  fears  : 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 


126 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees ; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees ! 

THE  NIGHTINGALE 

By  William  Wordsworth 

NIGHTINGALE  !  thou  surely 

art 

A  creature  of  a  "  fiery  heart  ":  — 
These    notes    of    thine  —  they 

pierce  and  pierce  ; 
Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce ! 
Thou  sing'st  as  if  the  God  of 

wine 

Had  helped  thee  to  a  Valentine  ; 
A  song  in  mockery  and  despite 
Of  shades,  and  dews,  and  silent  night ; 
And  steady  bliss,  and  all  the  loves 
Now  sleeping  in  these  peaceful  groves. 

I  heard  a  Stock-dove  sing  or  say 

His  homely  tale,  this  very  day ; 

His  voice  was  buried  among  trees, 

Yet  to  be  come-at  by  the  breeze : 

He  did  not  cease ;  but  cooed  —  and  cooed ; 

And  somewhat  pensively  he  wooed  : 

He  sang  of  love  with  quiet  blending, 

Slow  to  begin,  and  never  ending ; 

Of  serious  faith,  and  inward  glee  ; 

That  was  the  song  —  the  song  for  me ! 


I27 

TO  A  SKYLARK 

By  William  Wordsworth 

|P  with  me  !  up  with  me  into  the 

clouds  ! 

For  thy  song,  Lark,  is  strong  ; 
Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the 
clouds ! 

Singing,  singing, 
With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee 

ringing, 
Lift  me,  guide  me,  till  I  find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind  ! 

I  have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary, 

And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary ; 

Had  I  now  the  wings  of  a  Faery, 

Up  to  thee  would  I  fly. 

There's  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 

In  that  song  of  thine  ; 

Lift  me,  guide  me,  high  and  high 

To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning, 
Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning ; 
Thou  hast  a  nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest, 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth, 
Drunken  Lark  !  thou  wouldst  be  loth 
To  be  such  a  traveller  as  I. 


128 

Happy,  happy  Liver, 

With  a  soul  as  strong  as  a  mountain  river, 
Pouring  out  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver, 
Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both  ! 

Alas  !  my  journey,  rugged  and  uneven, 
Through  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must  wind  ; 
But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind, 
As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 
I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on, 
And  hope   for  higher  raptures  when  life's   day  is 
done. 


TINTERN  ABBEY 

By  William  Wordsworth 

HAVE  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the 

hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing 

oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Not  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of 

ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 


129 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  : 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods, 

And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye,  and  ear,  —  both  what  they  half  create, 

And  what  perceive ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts. 


TO   THE  CUCKOO 

By  William  Wordsworth 

BLITHE  New-comer  !    I  have 

heard, 

I  hear  thee  and  rejoice. 
O    Cuckoo!  shall   I    call    thee 

Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear, 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale, 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 


I30 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  Bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery  j 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 
I  listened  to  ;   that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love; 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird  !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place, 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee ! 


A   NIGHT   PIECE* 

By  William  Wordsworth 

The  sky  is  overcast 

With  a  continuous  cloud  of  texture  close, 
Heavy  and  wan,  all  whitened  by  the  Moon, 
Which  through  that  veil  is  indistinctly  seen, 
A  dull,  contracted  circle,  yielding  light 
So  feebly  spread,  that  not  a  shadow  falls, 
Chequering  the  ground  —  from  rock,  plant,  tree,  or 

tower. 

At  length  a  pleasant  instantaneous  gleam 
Startles  the  pensive  traveller  while  he  treads 
His  lonesome  path,  with  unobserving  eye 
Bent  earthwards  ;    he  looks   up  —  the  clouds    are 

split 

Asunder,  —  and  above  his  head  he  sees 
The  clear  Moon,  and  the  glory  of  the  heavens. 
There  in  a  black-blue  vault  she  sails  along, 
Followed  by  multitudes  of  stars,  that,  small 
And  sharp,  and  bright,  along  the  dark  abyss 
Drive  as  she  drives :   how  fast  they  wheel  away, 
Yet  vanish  not  !  —  the  wind  is  in  the  tree, 
But  they  are  silent ;  —  still  they  roll  along 
Immeasurably  distant ;  and  the  vault, 
Built    round     by    those    white    clouds,    enormous 

clouds, 

Still  deepens  its  unfathomable  depth. 
At  length  the  Vision  closes ;  and  the  mind, 

*  The   poetical   works  of  William    Wordsworth.     Edited  by   E. 
Dowden,  1892,  Vol.  2,  p.  88. 


I32 

Not  undisturbed  by  the  delight  it  feels, 
Which  slowly  settles  into  peaceful  calm, 
Is  left  to  muse  upon  the  solemn  scene. 


TO   MY   SISTER 

By  William  Wordsworth 

Written  at  a  small  distance  from  my  house,  and  sent  by 
my  little  boy. 

is  the  first  mild  day  of  March  : 
Each  minute  sweeter    than    be- 
fore, 
The    redbreast    sings    from    the 

tall  larch 
That  stands  beside  our  door. 

There  is  a  blessing  in  the  air, 
Which  seems  a  sense  of  joy  to  yield 
To  the  bare  trees,  and  mountains  bare, 
And  grass  in  the  green  field. 

My  sister !   ('tis  a  wish  of  mine) 
Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done, 
Make  haste,  your  morning  task  resign ; 
Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

Edward  will  come  with  you  ;  —  and,  pray, 
Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress ; 
And  bring  no  book :   for  this  one  day 
We'll  give  to  idleness. 


'33 

No  joyless  forms  shall  regulate 
Our  living  calendar : 
We  from  to-day,  my  Friend,  will  date 
The  opening  of  the  year. 

Love,  now  a  universal  birth, 
From  heart  to  heart  is  stealing, 
From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth : 
—  It  is  the  hour  of  feeling. 

One  moment  now  may  give  us  more 
Than  years  of  toiling  reason  : 
Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 
The  spirit  of  the  season. 

Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  will  make, 
Which  they  shall  long  obey : 
We  for  the  year  to  come  may  take 
Our  temper  from  to-day. 

And  from  the  blessed  power  that  rolls 
About,  below,  above, 
We'll  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls  : 
They  shall  be  turned  to  love. 

Then  come,  my  Sister ;  come,  I  pray, 
With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dress  j 
And  bring  no  book :   for  this  one  day 
We'll  give  to  idleness. 


LINES   WRITTEN   IN   EARLY 
SPRING 

By  William  Wordsworth 

HEARD  a  thousand  blended 
notes, 

While  in  a  grove  I  sate  re- 
clined, 

In  that  sweet  mood  when 
pleasant  thoughts 

Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  sweet  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths ; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played  ; 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure  :  — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made, 
It  seemed  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan, 
To  catch  the  breezy  air ; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 


'35 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man  ? 


THERE  WAS   A   BOY 

By  William  Wordsworth 

[HERE  was  a  Boy;  ye  knew  him 

well,  ye  cliffs 
And    islands    of  Winander !  — 

many  a  time, 
At    evening,  when    the    earliest 

stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the 

hills, 

Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone, 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glimmering  lake ; 
And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 
Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 
Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls, 
That   they  might  answer  him.  —  And   they  would 

shout 

Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again, 
Responsive  to  his  call,  —  with  quivering  peals, 
And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud 
Redoubled  and  redoubled  ;   concourse  wild 
Of  jocund  din  !   And,  when  there  came  a  pause 
Of  silence  such  as  baffled  his  best  skill : 


136 

Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 
Listening,  a  gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of  mountain  torrents  ;  or  the  visible  scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 
With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 
Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven  received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

This  boy  was  taken  from  his  mates,  and  died 
In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years  old. 
Pre-eminent  in  beauty  is  the  vale 
Where  he   was  born  and  bred  :  the  church-yard 

hangs 

Upon  a  slope  above  the  village  school ; 
And,  through  that  church-yard  when   my  way  has 

led 

On  summer  evenings,  I  believe  that  there 
A  long  half-hour  together  I  have  stood 
Mute  —  looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he  lies! 


"UP!  UP!  MY  FRIEND,  AND  QUIT 
YOUR  BOOKS" 

By  William  Wordsworth 

UP  ! .  up  !   my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books  ; 
Or  surely  you'll  grow  double  : 
Up  !  up  !  my  Friend,  and  clear  your  looks ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 


The  sun,  above  the  mountain's  head, 

A  freshening  lustre  mellow 

Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread, 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books  !  'tis  a  dull  and  endless  strife  : 
Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet, 
How  sweet  his  music  !   on  my  life, 
There's  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark  !  how  blithe  the  throstle  sings . 
He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher : 
Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things, 
Let  Nature  be  your  Teacher. 

She  has  a  world  of  ready  wealth, 
Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless  — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 
Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings ; 
Our  meddling  intellect 

Misshapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things  :  — 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art ; 
Close  up  these  barren  leaves ; 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 


DAFFODILS 

By  William  Wordsworth 

WANDERED  loneiy  as  a  cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales 

and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host,  of  golden  daffodils  ; 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Fluttering    and    dancing    in    the 
breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance, 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee ; 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay 
In  such  a  jocund  company. 

I  gazed  —  and  gazed  —  but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought. 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude ; 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 


139 


MY    HEART    LEAPS    UP    WHEN    I 
BEHOLD 

By  William  Wordsworth 

|Y  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began  ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man  ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die ! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

"  THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH 
WITH  US" 

By  William  Words-worth 

|HE  world  is  too  much  with  us ; 

late  and  soon, 
Getting   and    spending,    we    lay 

waste  our  powers  : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is 

ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away, 

a  sordid  boon  ! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon  ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 


140 


It  moves  us  not.  —  Great  God  !   I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  ; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

TO  A  BUTTERFLY 

By  William  Wordsworth 

I'VE  watched  you  now  a  full  half- 
hour, 
Self-poised     upon     that     yellow 

flower ; 

And,  little  Butterfly  !  indeed 
I  know  not  if  you  sleep  or  feed, 
How   motionless  !  —  not  frozen 

seas 

More  motionless  !  and  then 
What  joy  awaits  you,  when  the  breeze 
Hath  found  you  out  among  the  trees, 
And  calls  you  forth  again  ! 

This  plot  of  Orchard-ground  is  ours ; 

My  trees  they  are,  my  Sister's  flowers  ; 

Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary  ; 

Here  lodge  as  in  a  sanctuary ! 

Come  often  to  us,  fear  no  wrong ; 

Sit  near  us  on  the  bough  ! 

We'll  talk  of  sunshine  and  of  song, 

And  summer  days,  when  we  were  young ; 

Sweet  childish  days,  that  were  as  long 

As  twenty  days  are  now. 


AMONG  THE  HILLS 

By  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

OR  weeks  the  clouds  had   raked 

the  hills 
And    vexed     the    vales    with 

raining, 
And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with 

mist, 

And  all  the  brooks  complain- 
ing. 

At  last,  a  sudden  night-storm  tore 

The  mountain  veils  asunder, 
And  swept  the  valleys  clean  before 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Through  Sandwich  notch  the  west-wind  sang 

Good  morrow  to  the  cotter; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 

Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 

Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing. 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky, 
The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness  ; 

And  close,  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 

Had  more  than  June's  fresh  greenness. 


142 

Again  the  sodden  forest  floors 

With  golden  lights  were  checkered, 

Once  more  rejoicing  leaves  in  wind 

And  sunshine  danced  and  flickered. 

It  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 

I  call  to  mind  those  banded  vales 

Of  shadow  and  of  shining, 
Through  which,  my  hostess  at  my  side, 

I  drove  in  day's  declining. 

We  held  our  sideling  way  above 

The  river's  whitening  shallows, 

By  homesteads  old,  with  wide-flung  barns 

Swept  through  and  through  by  swallows ; 

By  maple  orchards,  belts  of  pine 

And  larches  climbing  darkly 
The  mountain  slopes,  and,  over  all, 

The  great  peaks  rising  starkly. 

You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill-range 
With  gaps  of  brightness  riven, — 

How  through  each  pass  and  hollow  streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  heaven, — 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 

From  far  celestial  fountains,  — 

The  great  sun  flaming  through  the  rifts 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains  ! 


We  paused  at  last  where  home-bound  cows 
Brought  down  the  pasture's  treasure, 

And  in  the  barn  the  rhythmic  flails 
Beat  out  a  harvest  measure. 

We  heard  the  night-hawk's  sullen  plunge, 
The  crow  his  tree-mates  calling  ; 

The  shadows  lengthening  down  the  slopes 
About  our  feet  were  falling. 

And  through  them  smote  the  level  sun 

In  broken  lines  of  splendor, 
Touched  the  gray  rocks  and  made  the  green 

Of  the  shorn  grass  more  tender. 

The  maples  bending  o'er  the  gate, 
Their  arch  of  leaves  just  tinted 

With  yellow  warmth,  the  golden  glow 
Of  coming  autumn  hinted. 

Keen  white  between  the  farm-house  showed, 
And  smiled  on  porch  and  trellis, 

The  fair  democracy  of  flowers 
That  equals  cot  and  palace. 

And  weaving  garlands  for  her  dog, 
'Twixt  chidings  and  caresses, 

A  human  flower  of  childhood  shook 
The  sunshine  from  her  tresses, 


144 

SNOW-BOUND 

By  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

|HE    sun    that    brief    December 

day 

Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A  sadder  light  than  waning 

moon. 

Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening 
sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out. 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 

Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east ;  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores, — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors, 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows  ; 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn  ; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 


Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent, 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 

The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 

A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm, 

And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 

As  zigzag,  wavering  to  and  fro, 

Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow : 

And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 

The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 

And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 

Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  : 
The  morning  broke  without  a  sun ; 
In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 
Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 
In  starry  flake  and  pellicle, 
All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell ; 
And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 
We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 
On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 

Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 
The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 
No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below, — - 
A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 


146 

The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 

Took  marvellous  shapes ;  strange  domes  and  towers 

Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 

Or  garden-wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 

A  smooth  white  mound  the  brush-pile  showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road  ; 

The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 

With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat ; 

The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof; 

And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof 

In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 

Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :  "  Boys,  a  path  !  " 
Well  pleased  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  ?) 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew ; 
With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  lowt 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 
We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal  :  we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers. 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about  5 


147 


The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked, 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked  j 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  his  sage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 
The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before ; 
Low  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 
The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone. 
No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 
To  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 
Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 
A  solitude  made  more  intense 
By  dreary-voiced  elements, 
The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 
The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 
And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 
Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 

Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 
No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 
Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 
Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 
We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 
The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 
The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 
Had  been  to  us  companionship, 
And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 
To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 


148 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back, — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick; 
The  knotty  fore-stick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam 
Until  the  old  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom  ; 
While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 
And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free. 
The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 
The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed ; 
While  childish  fancy  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle,     . 
Whispered  the  old  rhyme :  "  Under  the 
When  fire  outdoors  burns  merrily ', 
There  the  witches  are  making  tea" 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full ;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 


Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 
Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 
For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
Most  fitting  that  unwarming  light, 
Which  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed  ; 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 


150 

THE  BAREFOOT   BOY* 

By  John  Greenleaf  Whittier 

[LESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed    by    strawberries   on    the 
hill; 

With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 

Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace ; 

From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy,  — 

I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy ! 

Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 

Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, — 

Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  ; 

Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 

*The   Poetical   Works  of  John  Greenleaf  Whittier.      Ticknor   & 
Fields,   1869. 


Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood ; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung ; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine ; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  !  — 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone ; 


152 

Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall  ; 
Mine  .the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  ; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread  ;  — 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  ;  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 


'53 

Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat ; 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil ; 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 


THE  BOBOLINK 

By  Thomas  Hill 

IOBOLINK!   that  in  the  mead- 
ow, 

Or  beneath  the  orchard's  shadow, 
Keepest  up  a  constant  rattle 
Joyous  as  my  children's  prattle, 
Welcome  to  the  north  again  ! 
Welcome  to  mine  ear  thy  strain, 
Welcome  to  mine  eye  the  sight 
Of  thy  buff,  thy  black  and  white. 


154 

Brighter  plumes  may  greet  the  sun 
By  the  banks  of  Amazon  ; 
Sweeter  tones  may  weave  the  spell 
Of  enchanting  Philomel ; 
But  the  tropic  bird  would  fail, 
And  the  English  nightingale, 
If  we  should  compare  their  worth 
With  thine  endless,  gushing  mirth. 

When  the  ides  of  May  are  past, 
June  and  summer  nearing  fast, 
While  from  depths  of  blue  above 
Comes  the  mighty  breath  of  love, 
Calling  out  each  bud  and  flower 
With  resistless,  secret  power, — 
Waking  hope  and  fond  desire, 
Kindling  the  erotic  fire,  — 
Filling  youths'  and  maidens'  dreams 
With  mysterious,  pleasing  themes ; 
Then,  amid  the  sunlight  clear 
Floating  in  the  fragrant  air, 
Thou  dost  fill  each  heart  with  pleasure 
By  thy  glad  ecstatic  measure. 

A  single  note,  so  sweet  and  low, 
Like  a  full  heart's  overflow, 
Forms  the  prelude  ;  but  the  strain 
Gives  us  no  such  tone  again  ; 
For  the  wild  and  saucy  song 
Leaps  and  skips  the  notes  among, 
With  such  quick  and  sportive  play, 
Ne'er  was  madder,  merrier  lay. 


155 

Gayest  songster  of  the  spring  ! 
Thy  melodies  before  me  bring 
Visions  of  some  dream-built  land, 
Where,  by  constant  zephyrs  fanned, 
I  might  walk  the  livelong  day, 
Embosomed  in  perpetual  May. 
Nor  care  nor  fear  thy  bosom  knows ; 
For  thee  a  tempest  never  blows ; 
But  when  our  northern  summer's  o'er, 
By  Delaware's  or  Schuylkill's  shore 
The  wild  rice  lifts  its  airy  head, 
And  royal  feasts  for  thee  are  spread. 
And  when  the  winter  threatens  there, 
Thy  tireless  wings  yet  own  no  fear, 
But  bear  thee  to  more  southern  coasts, 
Far  beyond  the  reach  of  frosts. 
Bobolink  !   still  may  thy  gladness 
Take  from  me  all  taints  of  sadness  ; 
Fill  my  soul  with  trust  unshaken 
In  that  Being  who  has  taken 
Care  for  every  living  thing, 
In  Summer,  Winter,  Fall,  and  Spring. 


THE  VESPER   SPARROW 

By  Edith  M.  Thomas 

T  comes  from  childhood  land, 

Where  summer  days  are  long 
And  summer  eves  are  bland,  — 
A  lulling  good-night  song. 


I 


156 

Upon  a  pasture  stone, 

Against  the  fading  west, 
A  small  bird  sings  alone, 

Then  dives  and  finds  its  nest. 

The  evening  star  has  heard, 

And  flutters  into  sight ; 
O  childhood's  vesper-bird, 

My  heart  calls  back,  Good-Night. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER 

By  Edith  M.  Thomas 

|HUTTLE  of  the  sunburnt  grass, 
Fifer  in  the  dun  cuirass, 
Fifing  shrilly  in  the  morn, 
Shrilly  still  at  eve  unworn  j 
Now  to  rear,  now  in  the  van, 
Gayest  of  the  elfin  clan  : 
Though  I  watch  their    rustling 
flight, 

I  can  never  guess  aright 

Where  their  lodging-places  are ; 

'Mid  some  daisy's  golden  star, 

Or  beneath  a  roofing  leaf, 

Or  in  fringes  of  a  sheaf, 

Tenanted  as  soon  as  bound  ! 

Loud  thy  reveille  doth  sound, 

When  the  earth  is  laid  asleep, 

And  her  dreams  are  passing  deep, 


157 

Or  mid-August  afternoons ; 
And  through  all  the  harvest  moons, 
Nights  brimmed  up  with  honeyed  peace, 
Thy  gainsaying  doth  not  cease. 
When  the  frost  comes,  thou  art  dead ; 
We  along  the  stubble  tread, 
On  blue,  frozen  morns,  and  note 
No  least  murmur  is  afloat : 
Wondrous  still  our  fields  are  then, 
Fifer  of  the  elfin  men  ! 

A   WORD   WITH   A   SKYLARK 

By  Sarah  Piatt 

(A  Caprice  of  Homesickness. ) 

|F  this  be  all,  for  which  Pve  lis- 
tened long, 

Oh,  spirit  of  the  dew  ! 
You  did  not  sing  to  Shelley  such 

a  song 
As  Shelley  sung  to  you. 

Yet,  with  this  ruined  Old  World  for  a  nest, 
Worm-eaten  through  and  through,  — 

This  waste  of  grave-dust  stamped  with  crown  and 

crest,  - 
What  better  could  you  do  ? 

Ah  me !  but  when  the  world  and  I  were  young, 

There  was  an  apple-tree, 
There  was  a  voice  came  in  the  dawn  and  sung 

The  buds  awake  —  ah  me  ! 


i58 


Oh,  Lark  of  Europe,  downward  fluttering  near, 

Like  some  spent  leaf  at  best, 
You'd  never  sing  again  if  you  could  hear 

My  Blue-Bird  of  the  West ! 


IN     THE    HAUNTS   OF   BASS  AND 
BREAM 

By  Maurice  Thompson 

I 

REAMS   come   true,  and  every- 
thing 
Is  fresh  and  lusty  in  the  spring. 

In   groves,   that  smell   like  am- 
bergris, 
Wind-songs,  bird-songs,  never  cease. 

Go  with  me  down  by  the  stream, 
Haunt  of  bass  and  purple  bream  ; 

Feel  the  pleasure,  keen  and  sweet, 
When  the  cool  waves  lap  your  feet ; 

Catch  the  breath  of  moss  and  mould, 
Hear  the  grosbeak's  whistle  bold ; 

See  the  heron  all  alone 
Mid-stream  on  a  slippery  stone, 

Or,  on  some  decaying  log, 
Spearing  snail  or  water-frog ; 


See  the  shoals  of  sun-perch  shine 
Among  the  pebbles  smooth  and  fine, 

Whilst  the  sprawling  turtles  swim 
In  the  eddies  cool  and  dim  ! 

II 

The  busy  nuthatch  climbs  his  tree, 
Around  the  great  bole  spirally, 

Peeping  into  wrinkles  gray, 
Under  ruffled  lichens  gay, 

Lazily  piping  one  sharp  note 
From  his  silver  mailed  throat ; 

And  down  the  wind  the  catbird's  song 
A  slender  medley  trails  along. 

Here  a  grackle  chirping  low, 
There  a  crested  vireo  ; 

Deep  in  tangled  underbrush 
Flits  the  shadowy  hermit-thrush ; 

Cooes  the  dove,  the  robin  trills, 
The  crows  caw  from  the  airy  hills ; 

Purple  finch  and  pewee  gray, 
Blue-bird,  swallow,  oriole  gay,  — 

Every  tongue  of  Nature  sings  ; 
The  air  is  palpitant  with  wings ! 

Halcyon  prophecies  come  to  pass 
In  the  haunts  of  bream  and  bass.   , 


i6o 

III 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Like  an  old  tune  through  a  dream. 

Now  I  cast  my  silken  line ; 
See  the  gay  lure  spin  and  shine, 

While  with  delicate  touch  I  feel 
The  gentle  pulses  of  the  reel. 

Halcyon  laughs  and  cuckoo  cries ; 
Through  its  leaves  the  plane-tree  sighs. 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Here  a  glow  and  there  a  gleam  ; 

Coolness  all  about  me  creeping, 
Fragrance  all  my  senses  steeping,  — 

Spicewood,  sweet-gum,  sassafras, 
Calamus  and  water-grass, 

Giving  up  their  pungent  smells, 
Drawn  from  Nature's  secret  wells  ; 

On  the  cool  breath  of  the  morn, 
Perfume  of  the  cock-spur  thorn, 

Green  spathes  of  the  dragon-root, 
Indian  turnip's  tender  shoot, 

Dogwood,  red-bud,  elder,  ash, 
Snowy  gleam  and  purple  flash, 

Hillside  thickets,  densely  green, 
That  the  partridge  revels  in  ! 


IV 

I  see  the  morning-glory's  curl, 

The  curious  star-flower's  pointed  whorl  ; 

Hear  the  woodpecker,  rap-a-tap  ! 
See  him  with  his  cardinal's  cap  ! 

And  the  querulous,  leering  jay, 
How  he  clamors  for  a  fray  ! 

Patiently  I  draw  and  cast, 
Keenly  expectant  till,  at  last, 

Comes  a  flash,  down  in  the  stream, 
Never  made  by  perch  or  bream ; 

Then  a  mighty  weight  I  feel, 
Sings  the  line  and  whirs  the  reel ! 

V 

Out  of  a  giant  tulip-tree 

A  great  gay  blossom  falls  on  me ; 

Old  gold  and  fire  its  petals  are, 
It  flashes  like  a  falling  star. 

A  big  blue  heron  flying  by 
Looks  at  me  with  a  greedy  eye. 

I  see  a  striped  squirrel  shoot 
Into  a  hollow  maple-root ; 

A  bumble-bee  with  mail  all  rust, 

His  thighs  puffed  out  with  anther-dust, 


162 

Clasps  a  shrinking  bloom  about, 
And  draws  her  amber  sweetness  out. 


VI 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Like  a  song  heard  in  a  dream. 

A  white-faced  hornet  hurtles  by, 
Lags  a  turquoise  butterfly,  — 

One  intent  on  prey  and  treasure, 
One  afloat  on  tides  of  pleasure  ! 

Sunshine  arrows,  swift  and  keen, 
Pierce  the  burr-oak's  helmet  green. 

VII 

I  follow  where  my  victim  leaps 
Through  tangles  of  rank  water-weeds, 

O'er  stone  and  root  and  knotty  log, 
O'er  faithless  bits  of  reedy  bog. 

I  wonder  will  he  ever  stop  ? 

The  reel  hums  like  a  humming  top  I 

Through  graceful  curves  he  sweeps  the  line, 
He  sulks,  he  starts,  his  colors  shine, 

Whilst  I,  all  flushed  and  breathless,  tear 
Through  lady-fern  and  maiden's-hair, 


And  in  my  straining  fingers  feel 
The  throbbing  of  the  rod  and  reel ! 

A  thin  sandpiper,  wild  with  fright, 
Goes  into  ecstasies  of  flight ; 

A  gaunt  green  bittern  quits  the  rushes, 
The  yellow-throat  its  warbling  hushes ; 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Like  an  old  tune  through  a  dream  ! 

VIII 

At  last  he  tires,  I  reel  him  in  ; 
I  see  the  glint  of  scale  and  fin. 

The  crinkled  halos  round  him  break, 
He  leaves  gay  bubbles  in  his  wake. 

I  raise  the  rod,  I  shorten  line, 

And  safely  land  him,  —  he  is  mine ! 

IX 

The  belted  halcyon  laughs,  the  wren 
Comes  twittering  from  its  brushy  den ; 

The  turtle  sprawls  upon  its  log, 
I  hear  the  booming  of  a  frog. 

Liquidamber's  keen  perfume, 
Sweet-punk,  calamus,  tulip  bloom ; 


164 

Dancing  wasp  and  dragon-fly, 
Wood-thrush  whistling  tenderly  ; 

Damp  cool  breath  of  moss  and  mould, 
Noontide's  influence  manifold; 

Glimpses  of  a  cloudless  sky,  — 
Soothe  me  as  I  resting  lie. 

Bubble,  bubble,  flows  the  stream, 
Like  low  music  through  a  dream. 

A   TOUCH   OF  NATURE 

By  cfho?nas  Bailey  Aldrich 


HEN  first  the  crocus  thrusts  its 

point  of  gold 

Up     through     the     still     snow- 
drifted  garden  mould, 
And  folded  green  things  in  dim 

woods  unclose 

Their  crinkled  spears,  a   sudden 
tremor  goes 


Into  my  veins  and  makes  me  kith  and  kin 
To  every  wild-born  thing  that  thrills  and  blows. 
Sitting  beside  this  crumbling  sea-coal  fire, 
Here  in  the  city's  ceaseless  roar  and  din, 
Far  from  the  brambly  paths  I  used  to  know, 
Far  from  the  rustling  brooks  that  slip  and  shine 
Where  the  Neponset  alders  take  their  glow, 
I  share  the  tremulous  sense  of  bud  and  briar 
And  inarticulate  ardors  of  the  vine. 


i65 

SEA   LONGINGS 

By  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

HE    first    world-sound    that  fell 

upon  my  ear 
Was  that    of   the    great    winds 

along  the  coast 
Crushing  the  deep-sea  beryl  on 

the  rocks  — 
The    distant     breakers'     sullen 

cannonade. 
Against  the  spires  and  gables  of  the  town 
The  white  fog  drifted,  catching  here  and  there 
At  over-leaning  cornice  or  peaked  roof, 
And  hung  —  weird  gonfalons.     The  garden  walks 
Were    choked  with  leaves,   and   on    their  ragged 

biers 

Lay  dead  the  sweets  of  summer  —  damask  rose, 
Clove-pink,    old-fashioned,    loved    New    England 
flowers. 

Only  keen  salt  sea-odors  filled  the  air. 
Sea-sounds,  sea-odors  —  these  were  all  my  world. 
Hence  is  it  that  life  languishes  with  me 
Inland  ;  the  valleys  stifle  me  with  gloom 
And  pent-up  prospects ;  in  their  narrow  bound 
Imagination  flutters  futile  wings. 
Vainly  I  seek  the  sloping  pearl-white  sand 
And  the  mirage's  phantom  citadels 
Miraculous,  a  moment  seen,  then  gone. 
Among  the  mountains  I  am  ill  at  ease, 


i66 


Missing  the  stretched  horizon's  level  line 

And  the  illimitable  restless  blue. 

The  crag-torn  sky  is  not  the  sky  I  love, 

But  one  unbroken  sapphire  spanning  all ; 

And  nobler  than  the  branches  of  a  pine 

Aslant  upon  a  precipice's  edge 

Are  the  strained  spars  of  some  great  battle-ship 

Plowing  across  the  sunset.     No  bird's  lilt 

So  takes  me  as  the  whistling  of  the  gale 

Among  the  shrouds.     My  cradle-song  was  this, 

Strange  inarticulate  sorrows  of  the  sea, 

Blithe  rhythms  upgathered  from  the  Sirens'  caves. 

Perchance  of  earthly  voices  the  last  voice 

That  shall  an  instant  my  freed  spirit  stay 

On  this  world's  verge,  will  be  some  message  blown 

Over  the  dim  salt  lands  that  fringe  the  coast 

At  dusk  or  when  the  tranced  midnight  droops 

With  weight  of  stars,  or  haply  just  as  dawn, 

Illumining  the  sullen  purple  wave, 

Turns  the  gray  pools  and  willow-stems  to  gold. 

THE   BLUEBIRD 

By  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

(From  "  Spring  in  New  England.") 

HARK  'tis  the  bluebird's  venturous  strain 
High  on  the  old  fringed  elm  at  the  gate  — 
Sweet-voiced,  valiant  on  the  swaying  bough, 
Alert,  elate, 
Dodging  the  fitful  spits  of  snow, 

New  England's  poet-laureate 
Telling  us  Spring  has  come  again  ! 


i67 


SONG   OF   THE  RIVER 

By  Charles  Kingsley 

LEAR  and  cool,  clear  and  cool, 
By  laughing  shallow,  and  dream- 
ing pool ; 

Cool  and  clear,  cool  and  clear, 
By  shining  shingle,  and  foaming 

wear; 
Under  the  crag  where  the  ouzel 

sings, 

And  the  ivied  wall  where  the  church-bell  rings, 
Undefiled,  for  the  undefiled  ; 
Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 

Dank  and  foul,  dank  and  foul, 

By  the  smoky  town  in  its  murky  cowl ; 

Foul  and  dank,  foul  and  dank, 

By  wharf  and  sewer  and  slimy  bank ; 

Darker  and  darker  the  further  I  go, 

Baser  and  baser  the  richer  I  grow  ; 

Who  dare  sport  with  the  sin-defiled  ? 

Shrink  from  me,  turn  from  me,  mother  and  child. 

Strong  and  free,  strong  and  free, 
The  floodgates  are  open,  away  to  the  sea, 
Free  and  strong,  free  and  strong, 
Cleansing  my  streams  as  I  hurry  along 
To  the  golden  sands,  and  the  leaping  bar, 
And  the  taintless  tide  that  awaits  me  afar, 


i68 


As  I  lose  myself  in  the  infinite  main, 

Like  a  soul  that  has  sinned  and  is  pardoned  again. 

Undefiled,  for  the  undefiled ; 

Play  by  me,  bathe  in  me,  mother  and  child. 

THE  ROSE   IN  OCTOBER 

By  Mary  tfownley 

LATE  and  sweet,    too    sweet, 

too  late ! 
What  nightingale   will    sing  to 

thee  ? 
The  empty  nest,  the   shivering 

tree, 
The  dead  leaves  by  the  garden 

gate, 
And  cawing  crows  for  thee  will  wait, 

O  sweet  and  late ! 

Where  wert  thou  when  the  soft  June  nights 
Were  faint  with  perfume,  glad  with  song  ? 
Where  wert  thou  when  the  days  were  long 
And  steeped  in  summer's  young  delights  ? 
What  hopest  thou  now  but  checks  and  slights, 
Brief  days,  lone  nights  ? 

Stay  !  there's  a  gleam  of  winter  wheat 
Far  on  the  hill ;  down  in  the  woods 
A  very  heaven  of  stillness  broods  ; 
And  through  the  mellow  sun's  noon  heat, 
Lo,  tender  pulses  round  thee  beat, 

O  late  and  sweet ! 


169 

NOVEMBER 

By  C.  L.  Cleaveland 

HEN     thistle-blows     do     lightly 

float 

About  the  pasture-height, 
And  shrills  the  hawk   a   parting 

note, 

And  creeps  the  frost  at  night, 
Then  hilly  ho !   though    singing 

so, 


And  whistle  as  I  may, 

There  comes  again  the  old  heart  pain 

Through  all  the  livelong  day. 

In  high  wind  creaks  the  leafless  tree 

And  nods  the  fading  fern  ; 

The  knolls  are  dun  as  snow-clouds  be, 

And  cold  the  sun  does  burn. 

Then  ho,  hollo  !   though  calling  so, 

I  cannot  keep  it  down  ; 

The  tears  arise  unto  my  eyes, 

And  thoughts  are  chill  and  brown. 

Far  in  the  cedars'  dusky  stoles, 

Where  the  sere  ground-vine  weaves, 

The  partridge  drums  funereal  rolls 

Above  the  fallen  leaves. 

And  hip,  hip,  ho  !   though  cheering  so, 

It  stills  no  whit  the  pain ; 

For  drip,  drip,  drip,  from  bare  branch-tip, 

I  hear  the  year's  last  rain. 


170 

So  drive  the  cold  cows  from  the  hill, 
And  call  the  wet  sheep  in; 
And  let  their  stamping  clatter  fill 
The  barn  with  warming  din. 
And  ho,  folk,  ho  !   though  it  is  so 
That  we  no  more  may  roam, 
We  still  will  find  a  cheerful  mind 
Around  the  fire  at  home  ! 

THE   HUMMING-BIRD 

By  Ednah  Proctor  Clarke 

ANGER  of  air, 
Flashing    thy    flight    across    the 

noontide  hour, 
To  pierce  and  pass  ere  it  is  full 

aware 
Each  wondering  flower ! 


Jewelled  coryphee, 

With    quivering   wings    like  shielding  gauze  out- 
spread, 
And  measure  like  a  gleaming  shuttle's  play 

With  unseen  thread ! 

The  phlox,  milk-white, 

Sways  to  thy  whirling  ;  stirs  each  warm  rose  breast ; 
But  not  for  these  thy  palpitant  delight, 

Thy  rhythmic  quest ; 

Swift  weaves  thy  maze 

Where  flaunts  the  trumpet-vine  its  scarlet  pride, 
Where  softer  fire,  behind  its  chaliced  blaze, 

Doth  fluttering  hide. 


The  grave  thrush  sings 
His  love-call,  and  the  nightingale's  romance 
Throbs  through  the   twilight ;  thou   hast    but  thy 
wings, 

Thy  sun-thrilled  dance. 

Yet  doth  love's  glow 
Burn  in  the  ruby  of  thy  restless  throat, 
Guiding  thy  voiceless  ecstasy  to  know 

The  richest  note 

Of  brooding  thrush  ! 

Now  for  thy  joy  the  emptied  air  doth  long ; 
Thinte  is  the  nested  silence,  and  the  hush 

That  needs  no  song. 

FOOTPRINTS   IN   THE   SNOW 

By  Frank  Dempster  Sherman 

ORN  is  the  winter  rug  of  white, 
And   in   the   snow-bare  spots 

once  more 
Glimpses  of  faint  green  grass  in 

sight,  — 

Spring's     footprints     on     the 
floor. 

Upon  the  sombre  forest  gates 

A  crimson  flush  the  mornings  catch, 

The  token  of  the  Spring,  who  waits 
With  finger  on  the  latch. 


172 

Blow,  bugles  of  the  south,  and  win 

The  warders  from  their  dreams  too  long, 

And  bid  them  let  the  new  guest  in 
With  her  glad  hosts  of  song. 

She  shall  make  bright  the  dismal  ways 
With  broideries  of  bud  and  bloom, 

With  music  fill  the  nights  and  days 
And  end  the  garden's  gloom. 

Her  face  is  lovely  with  the  sun  ; 

Her  voice  —  ah,  listen  to  it  now  ! 
The  silence  of  the  year  is  done  : 

The  bird  is  on  the  bough  ! 

Spring  here,  —  by  what  magician's  touch  ? 

'Twas  winter  scarce  an  hour  ago. 
And  yet  I  should  have  guessed  as  much,  — 

Those  footprints  in  the  snow  ! 


TO   THE   CAT-BIRD 

Anonymous 

YOU,  who  would  with  wanton  art 
Counterfeit  another's  part, 
And  with  noisy  utterance  claim 
Right  to  an  ignoble  name,  — 
Inharmonious !  —  why  must  you, 
To  a  better  self  untrue, 
Gifted  with  the  charm  of  song, 
Do  the  generous  gift  such  wrong? 


Delicate  and  downy  throat, 
Shaped  for  pure,  melodious  note,  — 
Silvery  wings  of  softest  gray,  — 
Bright  eyes  glancing  every  way,  — 
Graceful  outline,  —  motion  free  : 
Types  of  perfect  harmony  ! 

Ah  !  you  much  mistake  your  duty, 
Mating  discord  thus  with  beauty,  — 
'Mid  these  heavenly  sunset  gleams, 
Vexing  the  smooth  air  with  screams,  — 
Burdening  the  dainty  breeze 
With  insane  discordancies. 

I  have  heard  you  tell  a  tale 
Tender  as  the  nightingale, 
Sweeter  than  the  early  thrush 
Pipes  at  day-dawn  from  the  bush. 
Wake  once  more  the  liquid  strain 
That  you  poured,  like  music-rain, 
When,  last  night,  in  the  sweet  weathers 
You  and  I  were  out  together. 

Unto  whom  two  notes  are  given, 
One  of  earth,  and  one  of  heaven, 
Were  it  not  a  shameful  tale 
That  the  earth-note  should  prevail  ? 

For  the  sake  of  those  who  love  us, 
For  the  sake  of  God  above  us, 
Each  and  all  should  do  their  best 
To  make  music  for  the  rest. 


So  will  I  no  more  reprove, 
Though  the  chiding  be  in  love  : 
Uttering  harsh  rebuke  to  you, 
That  were  inharmonious,  too. 


THE    WHITE-THROATED 
SPARROW 

By  A.  West 

ARK  !  't  is  our  Northern  Night- 
ingale that  sings 

In  far-off,  leafy  cloisters,  dark 
and  cool, 

Flinging  his  flute-notes  bounding 
from  the  skies  ! 

Thou    wild    musician    of    the 

mountain-streams, 

Most  tuneful  minstrel  of  the  forest-choirs, 
Bird  of  all  grace  and  harmony  of  soul, 
Unseen,  we  hail  thee  for  thy  blissful  voice  ! 

Up  in  yon  tremulous  mist  where  morning  wakes 

Illimitable  shadows  from  their  dark  abodes, 

Or  in  this  woodland  glade  tumultuous  grown 

With  all  the  murmurous  language  of  the  trees, 

No  blither  presence  fills  the  vocal  space. 

The  wandering  rivulets  dancing  through  the  grass, 

The  gambols,  low  or  loud,  of  insect-life, 

The  cheerful  call  of  cattle  in  the  vales, 

Sweet  natural  sounds  of  the  contented  hours,  — 

All  seem  less  jubilant  when  thy  song  begins. 


Deep  in  the  shade  we  lie  and  listen  long; 
For  human  converse  well  may  pause,  and  man 
Learn  from  such  notes  fresh  hints  of  praise, 
That  upward  swelling  from  thy  grateful  tribe 
Circles  the  hills  with  melodies  of  joy. 


A   CAGED  BIRD 

By  Sarah  Orne  Jewett 

IGH  at  the  window  in  her  cage 

The  old  canary  flits  and  sings, 
Nor  sees  across  the  curtain  pass 
The    shadow  of  a  swallow's 
wings. 

A  poor  deceit  and  copy,  this, 
Of  larger  lives  that  mark  their  span, 
Unreckoning  of  wider  worlds 

Or  gifts  that  Heaven  keeps  for  man. 

She  gathers  piteous  bits  and  shreds, 

This  solitary,  mateless  thing, 
To  patient  build  again  the  nest 

So  rudely  scattered  spring  by  spring ; 

And  sings  her  brief,  unlistened  songs, 
Her  dreams  of  bird-life  wild  and  free, 

Yet  never  beats  her  prison  bars 

At  sound  of  song  from  bush  or  tree. 


176 

But  in  my  busiest  hours  I  pause, 
Held  by  a  sense  of  urgent  speech, 

Bewildered  by  that  spark-like  soul, 
Able  my  very  soul  to  reach. 

She  will  be  heard;  she  chirps  me  loud, 
When  I  forget  those  gravest  cares, 

Her  small  provision  to  supply, 

Clear  water  or  her  seedsman's  wares. 

She  begs  me  now  for  that  chief  joy 

The  round  great  world  is  made  to  grow,  — 

Her  wisp  of  greenness.      Hear  her  chide, 
Because  my  answering  thought  is  slow  ! 

What  can  my  life  seem  like  to  her  ? 

A  dull,  unpunctual  service  mine ; 
Stupid  before  her  eager  call, 

Her  flitting  steps,  her  insight  fine. 

To  open  wide  thy  prison  door, 

Poor  friend,  would  give  thee  to  thy  foes ; 
And  yet  a  plaintive  note  I  hear, 

As  if  to  tell  how  slowly  goes 

The  time  of  thy  long  prisoning. 

Bird  !  does  some  promise  keep  thee  sane  ? 
Will  there  be  better  days  for  thee  ? 

Will  thy  soul  too  know  life  again  ? 

Ah,  none  of  us  have  more  than  this  : 

If  one  true  friend  green  leaves  can  reach 

From  out  some  fairer,  wider  place, 
And  understand  our  wistful  speech. 


177 


BLOOD-ROOT 


By  E.  S.  F. 

HEN  'mid  the  budding  elms  the 

bluebird  flits, 
As  if  a  bit  of  sky    had    taken 

wings ; 
When   cheerily    the  first   brave 

robin  sings, 
While    timid    April   smiles   and 

weeps  by  fits, 

Then  dainty  Blood-Root  dons  her  pale-green  wrap, 
And  ventures  forth  in  some  warm,  sheltered  nook, 
To  sit  and  listen  to  the  gurgling  brook, 
And  rouse  herself  from  her  long  winter  nap. 
Give  her  a  little  while  to  muse  and  dream, 
And  she  will  throw  her  leafy  cloak  aside, 
And  stand  in  shining  raiment,  like  a  bride 
Waiting  her  lord  ;  whiter  than  snow  will  seem 
Her  spotless  robe,  the  moss-grown  rocks  beside, 
And  bright  as  morn  her  golden  crown  will  gleam. 

THE   PASSING   OF  MARCH 

By  Robert  Burns  Wilson 

THE  braggart   March  stood  in   the  season's 
door 
With    his  broad   shoulders  blocking  up 

the  way, 

Shaking  the  snow-flakes  from  the  cloak  he  wore, 
And  from  the  fringes  of  his  kirtle  gray. 


"78 

Near  by  him  April  stood  with  tearful  face, 
With  violets  in  her  hands,  and  in  her  hair 

Pale,  wild  anemones ;  the  fragrant  lace 

Half-parted   from  her  breast,  which  seemed  like 
fair, 

Dawn-tinted  mountain  snow,  smooth-drifted  there. 

She  on  the  blusterer's  arm  laid  one  white  hand, 

But  he  would  none  of  her  soft  blandishment, 
Yet  did  she  plead  with  tears  none  might  withstand, 

For  even  the  fiercest  hearts  at  last  relent. 
And  he,  at  last,  in  ruffian  tenderness, 

With  one  swift,  crushing  kiss  her  lips  did  greet, 
Ah,  poor  starved  heart !  —  for  that  one  rude  caress, 

She  cast  her  violets  underneath  his  feet. 

WHEN  IN  THE  NIGHT  WE  WAKE 
AND  HEAR  THE  RAIN 

By  Robert  Burns  Wilson 

HEN  in  the  night  we  wake   and 

hear  the  rain 
Like   myriad   merry    footfalls  on 

the  grass, 
And,  on   the  roof,  the    friendly, 

threatening  crash 
Of  sweeping,  cloud-sped  messen- 
gers, that  pass 

Far  through  the  clamoring  night ;  or  loudly  dash 
Against  the  rattling  windows ;  storming,  still 
In  swift  recurrence,  each  dim-streaming 


Insistent  that  the  dreamer  wake,  within, 
And  dancing  in  the  darkness  on  the  sill : 
How  is  it,  then,  with  us  —  amidst  the  din, 

Recalled   from  Sleep's  dim,  vision-swept  do- 
main — 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain  ? 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain, 
Like  mellow  music,  comforting  the  earth  ; 
A  muffled,  half-elusive  serenade, 
Too  softly  sung  for  grief,  too  grave  for  mirth ; 
Such  as  night-wandering  fairy  minstrels  made 
In  fabled,  happier  days ;  while  far  in  space 
The  serious  thunder  rolls  a  deep  refrain, 
Jarring  the  forest,  wherein  Silence  makes 
Amidst  the  stillness  her  lone  dwelling-place ; 
Then  in  the  soul's  sad  consciousness  awakes 

Some  nameless  chord,  touched  by  that  haunt- 
ing strain, 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain. 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain, 

And  from  blown  casements  see  the  lightning  sweep 

The  ocean's  breadth  with  instantaneous  fire, 

Dimpling  the  lingering  curve  of  waves  that  creep 

In  steady  tumult  — waves  that  never  tire 

For  vexing,  night  and  day,  the  glistening  rocks, 

Firm-fixed  in  their  immovable  disdain 

Against  the  sea's  alternate  rage  and  play  : 

Comes   there   not    something   on    the  wind   which 

mocks 
The  feeble  thoughts,  the  foolish  aims  that  sway 


i8o 

Our  souls  with  hopes  of  unenduring  gain  — 
When   in   the   night   we   wake  and  hear  the 
rain  ? 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain 
Which  on  the  white  bloom  of  the  orchard  falls, 
And  on    the   young,  green  wheat-blades,  nodding 

now, 

And   on  the   half-turned  field,  where   thought  re- 
calls 

How  in  the  furrow  stands  the  rusting  plow, 
Then  fancy  pictures  what  the  day  will  see  — 
The  ducklings  paddling  in  the  puddled  lane, 
Sheep  grazing  slowly  up  the  emerald  slope, 
Clear  bird-notes  ringing,  and  the  droning  bee 
Among  the  lilacs'  bloom  —  enchanting  hope  — 
How  fair  the  fading  dreams  we  entertain, 
When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain  ! 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  and  hear  the  rain 
Which  falls  on  Summer's  ashes,  when  the  leaves 
Are  few  and  fading,  and  the  fields  forlorn 
No  more  remember  their  long-gathered  sheaves, 
Nor  aught  of  all  the  gladness  they  have  worn ; 
When  melancholy  veils  the  misty  hills 
Where  sombre  Autumn's  latest  glories  wane ; 
Then  goes  the  soul  forth  where  the  sad  year  lays 
On  Summer's  grave  her  withered  gifts,  and  fills 
Her  urn  with  broken  memories  of  sweet  days  — 
Dear  days  which,  being  vanished,  yet  remain, 
When   in  the  night  we   wake  and  hear  the 
rain. 


When  in  the  night  we  wake  not  with  the  rain  — 
When  Silence,  like  a  watchful  shade,  will  keep 
Too  well  her  vigil  by  the  lonely  bed 
In  which  at  last  we  rest  in  quiet  sleep  ; 
While  from  the  sod  the  melted  snows  be  shed, 
And  Spring's  green  grass,  with   Summer's  ripening 

sun, 

Grows  brown  and  matted  like  a  lion's  mane, 
How  will  it  be  with  us  ?      No  more  to  care 
Along  the  journeying  wind's  wild  path  to  run 
When  Nature's  voice  shall  call,  no  more  to  share 

Love's    madness  —  no    regret  —  no    longings 
vain  — 

When  in  the  night  we  wake  not  with  the  rain. 


DOVER    BEACH 

By  Matthew  Arnold 

|HE  sea  is  calm  to-night. 
The   tide   is   full,  the  moon  lies 

fair 
Upon    the    straits;   —  on     the 

French  coast  the  light 
Gleams  and  is  gone  ;  the  cliffs  of 

England  stand, 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 
Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air ! 
Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanch'd  land, 
Listen  1  you  hear  the  grating  roar 


182 


Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling, 
At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin,  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 
The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  /Egaean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery  j  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  sea  of  faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the   full,  and   round  earth's 

shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furl'd. 
But  now  I  only  hear 
Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 
Retreating,  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 
And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another  !   for  the  world,  which  seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain ; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


183 

POOR   MATTHIAS 

By  Matthew  Arnold 

>OR     Matthias  !  —  Found    him 

lying 
Fall'n     beneath    his     perch    and 

dying  ? 
Found  him  stiff,  you  say,  though 

warm  — 

All  convulsed  his  little  form  ? 
Poor  canary  !  many  a  year 
Well  he  knew  his  mistress  dear  ; 
Now  in  vain  you  call  his  name, 
Vainly  raise  his  rigid  frame, 
Vainly  warm  him  in  your  breast, 
Vainly  kiss  his  golden  crest, 
Smooth  his  ruffled  plumage  fine, 
Touch  his  trembling  beak  with  wine. 
One  more  gasp  —  it  is  the  end  ! 
Dead  and  mute  our  tiny  friend  ! 

—  Songster  thou  of  many  a  year, 
Now  thy  mistress  brings  thee  here, 
Says,  it  fits  that  I  rehearse, 
Tribute  due  to  thee,  a  verse, 
Mead  for  daily  song  of  yore 
Silent  now  for  evermore. 

Poor  Matthias  !      Wouldst  thou  hav« 
More  than  pity  ?  claim'st  a  stave  ? 

—  Friends  more  near  us  than  a  bird 
We  dismiss'd  without  a  word. 


Rover,  with  the  good  brown  head, 
Great  Atossa,  they  are  dead; 
Dead,  and  neither  prose  nor  rhyme 
Tells  the  praises  of  their  prime. 
Thou  didst  know  them  old  and  grey, 
Know  them  in  their  sad  decay. 
Thou  hast  seen  Atossa  sage 
Sit  for  hours  beside  thy  cage ; 
Thou  wouldst  chirp,  thou  foolish  bird, 
Flutter,  chirp  —  she  never  stirr'd  ! 
What  were  now  these  toys  to  her  ? 
Down  she  sank  amid  her  fur ; 
Eyed  thee  with  a  soul  resign'd — 
And  thou  deemedst  cats  were  kind ! 
—  Cruel,  but  composed  and  bland, 
Dumb,  inscrutable  and  grand, 
So  Tiberius  might  have  sat, 
Had  Tiberius  been  a  cat. 


Rover  died — Atossa  too. 
Less  than  they  to  us  are  you ! 
Nearer  human  were  their  powers, 
Closer  knit  their  life  with  ours. 
Hands  had  stroked  them,  which  are  cold, 
Now  for  years,  in  churchyard  mould  ; 
Comrades  of  our  past  were  they, 
Of  that  unreturning  day. 
Changed  and  aging,  they  and  we 
Dwelt,  it  seem'd,  in  sympathy. 
Alway  from  their  presence  broke 
Somewhat  which  remembrance  woke 


1 85 

Of  the  loved,  the  lost,  the  young  — 
Yet  they  died,  and  died  unsung. 

Geist  came  next,  our  little  friend  ; 
Geist  had  verse  to  mourn  his  end. 
Yes,  but  that  enforcement  strong 
Which  compell'd  for  Geist  a  song  — 
All  that  gay  courageous  cheer, 
All  that  human  pathos  dear; 
Soul-fed  eyes  with  suffering  worn, 
Pain  heroically  borne, 
Faithful  love  in  depth  divine  — 
Poor  Matthias,  were  they  thine  ? 

Max  and  Kaiser  we  to-day 
Greet  upon  the  lawn  at  play ; 
Max  a  dachshund  without  blot  — 
Kaiser  should  be,  but  is  not. 
Max,  with  shining  yellow  coat, 
Prinking  ears  and  dewlap  throat  — 
Kaiser,  with  his  collie  face, 
Penitent  for  want  of  race. 
—  Which  may  be  the  first  to  die, 
Vain  to  augur,  they  or  I  ! 
But,  as  age  comes  on,  I  know, 
Poet's  fire  gets  faint  and  lowj 
If  so  be  that  travel  they 
First  the  inevitable  way, 
Much  I  doubt  if  they  shall  have 
Dirge  from  me  to  crown  their  grave. 

Yet,  poor  bird,  thy  tiny  corse 
Moves  me,  somehow,  to  remorse ; 


i86 

Something  haunts  my  conscience,  brings 

Sad,  compunctious  visitings. 

Other  favourites,  dwelling  here, 

Open  lived  to  us,  and  near; 

Well  we  knew  when  they  were  glad, 

Plain  we  saw  if  they  were  sad, 

Joy'd  with  them  when  they  were  gay, 

Soothed  them  in  their  last  decay ; 

Sympathy  could  feel  and  show 

Both  in  weal  of  theirs  and  woe. 

Birds,  companions  more  unknown, 
Live  beside  us,  but  alone ; 
Finding  not,  do  all  they  can, 
Passage  from  their  souls  to  man. 
Kindness  we  bestow,  and  praise, 
Laud  their  plumage,  greet  their  lays ; 
Still,  beneath  their  feather'd  breast, 
Stirs  a  history  unexpress'd. 
Wishes  there,  and  reelings  strong, 
Incommunicably  throng ; 
What  they  want,  we  cannot  guess, 
Fail  to  track  their  deep  distress  — 
Dull  look  on  when  death  is  nigh, 
Note  no  change,  and  let  them  die. 
Poor  Matthias  !   couldst  thou  speak. 
What  a  tale  of  thy  last  week ! 
Every  morning  did  we  pay 
Stupid  salutations  gay, 
Suited  well  to  health,  but  how 
Mocking,  how  incongruous  now ! 


Cake  we  offer'd,  sugar,  seed, 
Never  doubtful  of  thy  need  ; 
Praised,  perhaps,  thy  courteous  eye, 
Praised  thy  golden  livery. 
Gravely  thou  the  while,  poor  dear ! 
Sat'st  upon  thy  perch  to  hear, 
Fixing  with  a  mute  regard 
Us,  thy  human  keepers  hard, 
Troubling,  with  our  chatter  vain, 
Ebb  of  life,  and  mortal  pain  — 
Us,  unable  to  divine 
Our  companion's  dying  sign, 
Or  o'erpass  the  severing  sea 
Set  betwixt  ourselves  and  thee, 
Till  the  sand  thy  feathers  smirch 
Fallen  dying  off  thy  perch  ! 

Was  it,  as  the  Grecian  sings, 
Birds  were  born  the  first  of  things, 
Before  the  sun,  before  the  wind, 
Before  the  gods,  before  mankind, 
Airy,  ante-mundane  throng  — 
Witness  their  unworldly  song ! 
Proof  they  give,  too,  primal  powers, 
Of  a  prescience  more  than  ours  — 
Teach  us,  while  they  come  and  go, 
When  to  sail,  and  when  to  sow. 
Cuckoo  calling  from  the  hill, 
Swallow  skimming  by  the  mill, 
Swallows  trooping  in  the  sedge, 
Starlings  swirling  from  the  hedge, 


i88 

Mark  the  seasons,  map  our  year, 
As  they  show  and  disappear. 
But,  with  all  this  travail  sage 
Brought  from  that  anterior  age, 
Goes  an  unreversed  decree 
Whereby  strange  are  they  and  we, 
Making  want  of  theirs,  and  plan, 
Indiscernible  by  man. 

No,  away  with  tales  like  these 
StoPn  from  Aristophanes  ! 
Does  it,  if  we  miss  your  mind, 
Prove  us  so  remote  in  kind  ? 
Birds  !   we  but  repeat  on  you 
What  amongst  ourselves  we  do. 
Somewhat  more  or  somewhat  less, 
'Tis  the  same  unskilfulness. 
What  you  feel,  escapes  our  ken  — 
Know  we  more  our  fellow  men  ? 
Human  suffering  at  our  side, 
Ah,  like  yours  is  undescried  ! 
Human  longings,  human  fears, 
Miss  our  eyes  and  miss  our  ears. 
Little  helping,  wounding  much, 
Dull  of  heart,  and  hard  of  touch, 
Brother  man's  despairing  sign 
Who  may  trust  us  to  divine  ? 
Who  assure  us,  sundering  powers 
Stand  not  'twixt  his  soul  and  ours  ? 

Poor  Matthias  !     See,  thy  end 
What  a  lesson  doth  it  lend  ! 


For  that  lesson  thou  shalt  have, 

Dead  canary  bird,  a  stave  ! 

Telling  how,  one  stormy  day, 

Stress  of  gale  and  showers  of  spray 

Drove  my  daughter  small  and  me 

Inland  from  the  rocks  and  sea. 

Driv'n  inshore,  we  follow  down 

Ancient  streets  of  Hastings  town  — 

Slowly  thread  them  —  when  behold, 

French  canary-merchant  old 

Shepherding  his  flock  of  gold 

In  a  low  dim-lighted  pen 

Scann'd  of  tramps  and  fishermen  ! 

There  a  bird,  high-colored,  fat, 

Proud  of  port,  though  something  squat  — 

Pursy,  play'd-out  Philistine  — 

Dazzled  Nelly's  youthful  eyne. 

But,  far  in,  obscure,  there  stirr'd 

On  his  perch  a  sprightlier  bird, 

Courteous-eyed,  erect  and  slim ; 

And  I  whisper'd  :  "  Fix  on  him  !  " 

Home  we  brought  him,  young  and  fair, 

Songs  to  thrill  in  Surrey  air. 

Here  Matthias  sang  his  fill, 

Saw  the  cedars  of  Pains  Hill ; 

Here  he  pour'd  his  little  soul, 

Heard  the  murmur  of  the  Mole. 

Eight  in  number  now  the  years 

He  hath  pleased  our  eyes  and  ears  ; 

Other  favorites  he  hath  known 

Go,  and  now  himself  is  gone. 


190 

—  Fare  thee  well,  companion  dear ! 
Fare  for  ever  well,  nor  fear, 
Tiny  though  thou  art,  to  stray 
Down  the  uncompanion'd  way  ! 
We  without  thee,  little  friend, 
Many  years  have  not  to  spend ; 
What  are  left,  will  hardly  be 
Better  than  we  spent  with  thee. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE 
CUCKOO 

(From  "Thyrsis") 

By  Matthew  Arnold 

some    tempestuous    morn   in 

early  June, 
When  the  year's  primal  burst 

of  bloom  is  o'er, 
Before  the  roses  and  the  longest 

day  — 
When    garden-walks    and   all 

the  grassy  floor 
With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  May 

And  chestnut-flowers  are  strewn  — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry, 

From   the  wet   field,  through   the   vext  garden- 
trees, 

Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing  breeze  : 
The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I ! 


PHILOMELA 

By  Matthew  Arnold 


ARK  !  ah,  the  nightingale  — 
The  tawny-throated  ! 
Hark,  from    that   moonlit  cedar 

what  a  burst  ! 
What    triumph  !     hark  !  —  what 

pain  ! 


O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 

Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 

Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewildered  brain 

That   wild,    unquench'd,    deep-sunken,    old-world 

pain  — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn, 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English  grass, 

The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild  ? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 

With  hot  cheeks  and  seared  eyes 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's  shame  ! 

Dost  thou  once  more  essay 


192 

Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 

Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 

Once  more,  and  once  more  make  resound, 

With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 

Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale  ? 

Listen,  Eugenia  — 

How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through  the 

leaves  ! 

Again  —  thou  hearest  ? 
Eternal  passion ! 
Eternal  pain ! 


TRAILING  ARBUTUS 

By  Henry  Abbey 

N     spring,     when     branches    of 

woodbine 

Hung  leafless  over  the  rocks, 
And    the     fleecy    snow    in     the 

hollows 
Lay  in  unshepherded  flocks, 

By  the  road  where  the  dead  leaves  rustled, 

Or  damply  matted  the  ground, 
While  over  me  lifted  the  robin 

His  honeyed  passion  of  sound, 


I  saw  the  trailing  arbutus 
Blooming  in  modesty  sweet, 

And  gathered  store  of  its  richness 
Offered  and  spread  at  my  feet. 


It  grew  under  leaves,  as  if  seeking 

No  hint  of  itself  to  disclose, 
And  out  of  its  pink-white  petals 

A  delicate  perfume  rose, 

As  faint  as  the  fond  remembrance 
Of  joy  that  was  only  dreamed; 

And  like  a  divine  suggestion 

The  scent  of  the  flower  seemed. 

I  had  sought  for  love  on  the  highway, 

For  love  unselfish  and  pure, 
And  had  found  it  in  good  deeds  blooming, 

Though  often  in  haunts  obscure. 

Often  in  leaves  by  the  wayside, 

But  touched  with  a  heavenly  glow, 

And  with  self-sacrifice  fragrant, 
The  flowers  of  great  love  grow. 

O  lovely  and  lowly  arbutus  ! 

As  year  unto  year  succeeds, 
Be  thou  the  laurel  and  emblem 

Of  noble,  unselfish  deeds. 

WINTER   DAYS 

By  Henry  Abbey 

NOW  comes  the  graybeard  of  the  north'. 
The  forests  bare  their  rugged  breasts 
To  every  wind  that  wanders  forth, 
And,  in  their  arms,  the  lonely  nests 
That  housed  the  birdlings  months  ago 
Are  egged  with  flakes  of  drifted  snow. 


194 

No  more  the  robin  pipes  his  lay 

To  greet  the  flushed  advance  of  morn ; 
He  sings  in  valleys  far  away ; 
His  heart  is  with  the  south  to-day ; 

He  cannot  shrill  among  the  corn  : 
For  all  the  hay  and  corn  are  down 

And  garnered ;  and  the  withered  leaf, 
Against  the  branches  bare  and  brown, 

Rattles  ;  and  all  the  days  are  brief. 

An  icy  hand  is  on  the  land  ; 

The  cloudy  sky  is  sad  and  gray ; 
But  through  the  misty  sorrow  streams 

A  heavenly  and  golden  ray. 
And  on  the  brook  that  cuts  the  plain 

A  diamond  wonder  is  aglow, 

Fairer  than  that  which,  long  ago, 
De  Rohan  staked  a  name  to  gain. 


ROBIN'S  COME! 

By  William  W.  Caldwell 

FROM  the  elm-tree's  topmost  bough, 
Hark!  the  Robin's  early  song! 
Telling  one  and  all  that  now 
Merry  spring-time  hastes  along; 
Welcome  tidings  dost  thou  bring, 
Little  harbinger  of  spring, 

Robin's  come ! 


195 

Of  the  winter  we  are  weary, 
Weary  of  the  frost  and  snow, 

Longing  for  the  sunshine  cheery, 
And  the  brooklet's  gurgling  flow ; 

Gladly  then  we  hear  thee  sing 

The  reveille  of  spring, 

Robin's  come ! 

Ring  it  out  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Through  the  garden's  lonely  bowers, 

Till  the  green  leaves  dance  again, 
Till  the  air  is  sweet  with  flowers ! 

Wake  the  cowslips  by  the  rill, 

Wake  the  yellow  daffodil ! 

Robin's  come  ! 

Then  as  thou  wert  wont  of  yore, 
Build  thy  nest  and  rear  thy  young, 

Close  beside  our  cottage  door, 
In  the  woodbine  leaves  among ; 

Hurt  or  harm  thou  need'st  not  fear, 

Nothing  rude  shall  venture  near. 
Robin's  come  ! 

Swinging  still  o'er  yonder  lane 

Robin  answers  merrily ; 
Ravished  by  the  sweet  refrain, 

Alice  claps  her  hands  in  glee, 
Calling  from  the  open  door, 
With  her  soft  voice,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Robin's  come  ! 


196 

TO   A   SEA-BIRD 

By  Francis  Bret  Harte 


UNTERING  hither  on  listless 

wings, 

Careless  vagabond  of  the  sea, 
Little  thou  heedest  the  surf  that 


sings, 
The  bar  that  thunders,  the  shale 

that  rings, — 
Give  me  to  keep  thy  company. 

Little  thou  hast,  old  friend,  that's  new ; 

Storms  and  wrecks  are  old  things  to  thee; 
Sick  am  I  of  these  changes  too ; 
Little  to  care  for,  little  to  rue,  — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

All  of  thy  wanderings,  far  and  near, 

Bring  thee  at  last  to  shore  and  me ; 
All  of  my  journeyings  end  them  here, 
This  our  tether  must  be  our  cheer,  — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 

Lazily  rocking  on  ocean's  breast, 

Something  in  common,  old  friend,  have  we ; 
Thou  on  the  shingle  seekest  thy  nest, 
I  to  the  waters  look  for  rest,  — 

I  on  the  shore,  and  thou  on  the  sea. 


GRIZZLY 

By  Francis  Bret  Harte 

•WARD,  —  of  heroic  size, 
In  whose  lazy  muscles  lies 
Strength  we  fear  and  yet  despise; 
Savage,  —  whose  relentless  tusks 
Are  content  with  acorn  husks  ; 
Robber,  —  whose    exploits    ne'er 
soared 

O'er  the  bee's  or  squirrel's  hoard ; 

Whiskered  chin,  and  feeble  nose, 

Claws  of  steel  on  baby  toes,  — 

Here,  in  solitude  and  shade, 

Shambling,  shuffling  plantigrade, 

Be  thy  courses  undismayed ! 

Here,  where  Nature  makes  thy  bed, 
Let  thy  rude,  half-human  tread 

Point  to  hidden  Indian  springs, 
Lost  in  ferns  and  fragrant  grasses, 

Hovered  o'er  by  timid  wings, 
Where  the  wood-duck  lightly  passes, 
Where  the  wild  bee  holds  her  sweets,  — 
Epicurean  retreats, 
Fit  for  thee,  and  better  than 
Fearful  spoils  of  dangerous  man. 

In  thy  fat-jowled  deviltry 
Friar  Tuck  shall  live  in  thee ; 


198 

Thou  mayest  levy  tithe  and  dole ; 

Thou  shalt  spread  the  woodland  cheer, 
From  the  pilgrim  taking  toll ; 

Match  thy  cunning  with  his  fear; 
Eat,  and  drink,  and  have  thy  fill  ; 
Yet  remain  an  outlaw  still ! 


NATURE 

By  Jones 


|HE    bubbling    brook   doth    leap 

when  I  come  by, 
Because    my   feet    find   measure 

with  its  call  ; 
The  birds  know  when  the  friend 

they  love  is  nigh, 
For  I  am  known  to  them,  both 

great  and  small. 
The  flower  that  on  the  lonely  hillside  grows 
Expects  me  there  when  Spring  its  bloom  has  given  ; 
And  many  a  tree  and  bush  my  wandering  knows, 
And  e'en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars  of  heaven  ; 
For  he  who  with  his  Maker  walks  aright, 
Shall  be  their  lord  as  ADAM  was  before  ; 
His  ear  shall  catch  each  sound  with  new  delight, 
Each  object  wear  the  dress  that  then  it  wore; 
And  he,  as  when  erect  in  soul  he  stood, 
Hear  from  his  Father's  lips  that  all  is  good. 


199 

SEEKING   THE   MAY-FLOWER 

By  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

HE    sweetest    sound    our  whole 

year  round  — 
'Tis    the    first    robin    of    the 

spring  ! 
The    song   of  the    full  orchard 

choir 
Is  not  so  fine  a  thing. 

Glad  sights  are  common :   Nature  draws 
Her  random  pictures  through  the  year, 

But  oft  her  music  bids  us  long 
Remember  those  most  dear. 

To  me,  when  in  the  sudden  spring 

I  hear  the  earliest  robin's  lay, 
With  the  first  trill  there  comes  again 

One  picture  of  the  May. 

The  veil  is  parted  wide,  and  lo, 

A  moment,  though  my  eyelids  close, 

Once  more  I  see  that  wooded  hill 
Where  the  arbutus  grows. 

I  see  the  village  dryad  kneel, 

Trailing  her  slender  fingers  through 
The  knotted  tendrils,  as  she  lifts 

Their  pink,  pale  flowers  to  view. 


2OO 


Once  more  I  dare  to  stoop  beside 
The  dove-eyed  beauty  of  my  choice, 

And  long  to  touch  her  careless  hair, 
And  think  how  dear  her  voice. 

My  eager,  wandering  hands  assist 
With  fragrant  blooms  her  lap  to  fill, 

And  half  by  chance  they  meet  her  own, 
Half  by  our  young  hearts'  will. 

Till,  at  the  last,  those  blossoms  won,  — 
Like  her,  so  pure,  so  sweet,  so  shy, — 

Upon  the  gray  and  lichened  rocks 
Close  at  her  feet  I  lie. 

Fresh  blows  the  breeze  through  hemlock  trees, 
The  fields  are  edged  with  green  below ; 

And  naught  but  youth  and  hope  and  love 
We  know  or  care  to  know ! 

Hark  !  from  the  moss-clung  apple-bough, 
Beyond  the  tumbled  wall,  there  broke 

That  gurgling  music  of  the  May,  — 
'Twas  the  first  robin  spoke ! 

I  heard  it,  ay,  and  heard  it  not,  — 
For  little  then  my  glad  heart  wist 

What  toil  and  time  should  come  to  pass, 
And  what  delight  be  missed ; 

Nor  thought  thereafter,  year  by  year, 
Hearing  that  fresh  yet  olden  song, 

To  yearn  for  unreturning  joys 
That  with  its  joy  belong. 


2OI 


WHAT   THE   WINDS   BRING 

By  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

HIGH  is  the  wind  that  brings  the 

cold  ? 
The  north-wind,  Freddy,  and 

all  the  snow  ; 
And  the  sheep  will  scamper  into 

the  fold 
When  the  north  begins  to  blow. 


Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  heat  r 

The  south-wind,  Katy ;  and  corn  will  grow, 

And  peaches  redden  for  you  to  eat, 
When  the  south  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  rain  ? 

The  east-wind,  Arty ;  and  farmers  know 
That  cows  come  shivering  up  the  lane 

When  the  east  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  wind  that  brings  the  flowers  ? 

The  west-wind,  Bessy ;  and  soft  and  low 
The  birdies  sing  in  the  summer  hours 

When  the  west  begins  to  blow. 

UNDER   THE   LEAVES 

By  Albert  Laighton 

FT  have  I  walked  these  woodland  paths, 

Without  the  blessed  foreknowing 
That  underneath  the  withered  leaves 
The  fairest  buds  were  growing. 


O 


202 

To-day  the  south-wind  sweeps  away 
The  types  of  autumn's  splendor, 

And  shows  the  sweet  arbutus  flowers,  — 
Spring's  children,  pure  and  tender. 

O  prophet-flowers  !  —  with  lips  of  bloom, 

Outvying  in  your  beauty 
The  pearly  tints  of  ocean  shells, — 

Ye  teach  me  faith  and  duty ! 

Walk  life's  dark  ways,  ye  seem  to  say, 
With  love's  divine  foreknowing, 

That  where  man  sees  but  withered  leaves, 
God  sees  sweet  flowers  growing. 

NANTASKET 

By  Mary  Clemmer  Ames 
(From  "  Nantasket  ") 

AIR  is  thy  face,  Nantasket, 

And  fair  thy  curving  shores ; 
The  peering  spires  of  villages  ; 
The  boatman's  dipping  oars ; 
The  lonely  ledge  of  Minot, 
Where   the    watchman    tends 

his  light, 
And  sets  its  perilous  beacon  — 
A  star  in  the  stormiest  night. 

Along  thy  vast  sea  highways 

The  great  ships  slide  from  sight, 
And  flocks  of  winged  phantoms 

Flit  by  like  birds  in  flight. 


2O3 

Over  the  toppling  sea-wall 
The  homebound  dories  float ; 

I  see  the  patient  fisherman 
Bend  in  his  anchored  boat. 

I  am  alone  with  Nature, 

With  the  soft  September  day ; 
The  lifting  hills  above  me, 

With  golden-rod  are  gay. 
Across  the  fields  of  ether 

Flit  butterflies  at  play ; 
And  cones  of  garnet  sumach 

Glow  down  the  country  way. 

The  autumn  dandelion 

Beside  the  roadside  burns ; 
Above  the  lichened  bowlders 

Quiver  the  plumed  ferns. 
The  cream-white  silk  of  the  milkweed 

Floats  from  its  sea-green  pod  ; 
From  out  the  mossy  rock-seams 

Flashes  the  golden-rod. 

The  woodbine's  scarlet  banners 

Flaunt  from  their  towers  of  stone  ; 
The  wan,  wild  morning-glory 

Dies  by  the  road  alone. 
By  the  hill-path  to  the  seaside 

Wave  myriad  azure  bells ; 
Over  the  grassy  ramparts 

Bend  milky  immortelles. 


204 

I  see  the  tall  reeds  shiver 

Beside  the  salt  sea  marge ; 
I  see  the  seabird  glimmer 

Far  out  on  airy  barge. 
The  cumulate  cry  of  the  cricket 

Pierces  the  amber  noon ; 
Over  and  through  it  Ocean 

Chants  his  pervasive  rune. 

Fair  is  the  earth  behind  me, 

Vast  is  the  sea  before ; 
Afar  in  the  misty  mirage 

Glistens  another  shore. 
Is  it  a  realm  enchanted  ? 

It  cannot  be  more  fair 
Than  this  nook  of  Nature's  kingdom, 

With  its  spell  of  space  and  air. 

Lo,  over  the  sapphire  ocean 

Trembles  a  bridge  of  flame,  — 
To  the  burning  core  of  the  sunset, 

To  the  city  too  fair  to  name ; 
Till  a  ray  of  its  inner  glory 

Streams  to  this  lower  sea, 
And  we  see  with  human  vision 

What  Heaven  itself  may  be. 


205 

GREEN    THINGS   GROWING 

By  Dinah  Mulock  Craik 

THE  green  things  growing,  the 

green  things  growing, 
The    faint    sweet    smell    of  the 

green  things  growing ! 
I  should  like  to  live,  whether  I 

smile  or  grieve, 
Just  to  watch  the  happy  life  of 

my  green  things  growing. 

0  the  fluttering  and  the  pattering  of  those  green 

things  growing ! 
How  they  talk  each  to  each,  when  none  of  us  are 

knowing  ; 

In  the  wonderful  white  of  the  weird  moonlight  J 

Or  the   dim  dreamy    dawn    when    the  cocks    are 

crowing. 

1  love,  I  love  them  so  —  my  green  things  growing  ! 
And    I   think   that   they    love    me,    without    false 

showing ; 
For  by  many  a  tender  touch,  they  comfort  me  so 

much, 
With  the  soft  mute  comfort  of  green  things  growing. 

And  in  the  rich  store  of  their  blossoms  glowing 
Ten  for  one  I  take  they're  on  me  bestowing  : 
Oh,  I  should  like  to  see,  if  God's  will  it  may  be, 
Many,  many  a  summer  of  my  green  things  growing  ! 


2O6 


But  if  1  must  be  gathered  for  the  angel's  sowing, 
Sleep   out   of  sight  awhile,  like  the   green   things 

growing, 
Though  dust  to  dust  return,  I  think  I'll  scarcely 

mourn, 
If  I  may  change  into  green  things  growing. 


CORNFIELDS 

By  Mary  Howitt 

HEN   on   the  breath  of  autumn 

breeze, 

From  pastures  dry  and  brown, 
Goes  floating  like  an  idle  thought 

The  fair  white  thistle-down, 
O  then  what  joy  to  walk  at  will 
Upon  the  golden  harvest  hill ! 


What  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 
Amid  a  field  new  shorn, 

And  see  all  round  on  sun-lit  slopes 
The  piled-up  stacks  of  corn ; 

And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o'er 

All  pleasant  harvest-fields  of  yore. 

I  feel  the  day  —  I  see  the  field, 
The  quivering  of  the  leaves, 

And  good  old  Jacob  and  his  house 
Binding  the  yellow  sheaves  ; 

And  at  this  very  hour  I  seem 

To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream. 


207 

I  see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem, 

And  reapers  many  a  one, 
Bending  unto  their  sickles'  stroke  — 

And  Boaz  looking  on  ; 
And  Ruth,  the  Moabite  so  fair, 
Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there. 

Again  I  see  a  little  child, 

His  mother's  sole  delight, — 

God's  living  gift  unto 

The  kind,  good  Shunamite ; 

To  mortal  pangs  I  see  him  yield, 

And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field. 

The  sun-bathed  quiet  of  the  hills, 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 
That  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

Were  full  of  corn,  I  see  ; 
And  the  dear  Saviour  takes  his  way 
'Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath  day. 

O  golden  fields  of  bending  corn, 
How  beautiful  they  seem  ! 

The  reaper-folk,  the  piled-up  sheaves, 
To  me  are  like  a  dream. 

The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 

Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there. 


208 

AUGUST 

By  Celia  fkaxfer 

UTTERCUP    nodded    and    said 

good-by, 
Clover    and     daisy     went     off 

together, 

But  the  fragrant  water-lilies  lie 
Yet     moored     in     the    golden 

August  weather. 
The  swallows  chatter  about  their  flight, 

The  cricket  chirps  like  a  rare  good  fellow, 
The  asters  twinkle  in  clusters  bright, 

While  the  corn  grows  ripe  and  the  apples  mellow. 

WILD  GEESE 

By  Celia  Baxter 

HE  wind  blows,  the  sun  shines, 

the  birds  sing  loud, 
The    blue,  blue   sky    is   flecked 

with  fleecy  dappled  cloud, 
Over  earth's  rejoicing  fields  the 

children  dance  and  sing, 
And   the   frogs   pipe    in    chorus, 

"It  is  spring  !  It  is  spring!  " 

The  grass  comes,  the  flower  laughs  where  lately 

lay  the  snow, 
O'er  the  breezy  hill-top  hoarsely  calls  the  crow, 


209 

By  the  flowing  river  the  alder  catkins  swing, 
And  the  sweet  song-sparrow  cries,  "  Spring !    It  is 
spring !  " 

Hark,  what  a  clamor  goes  winging  through  the  sky  ! 
Look,  children  !   Listen   to  the  sound  so  wild  and 

high  ! 

Like  a  peal  of  broken  bells,  —  kling,  klang,  kling,  — 
Far  and  high  the  wild  geese  cry,  "  Spring  !     It  is 

spring !  " 

Bear  the  winter  off  with  you,  O  wild  geese  dear ! 
Carry  all  the  cold  away,  far  away  from  here  ; 
Chase  the  snow  into  the  north,  O  strong  of  heart 

and  wing, 
While  we  share  the  robin's  rapture,  crying,  u  Spring ! 

It  is  spring!  " 


THE   SANDPIPER 

By  Celia  fkaxter 

[CROSS  the  narrow  beach  we  flit, 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I, 
And  fast  I  gather,  bit  by  bit, 
The     scattered     driftwood 

bleached  and  dry. 
The     wild     waves     reach    their 

hands  for  it, 
The  wild  wind  raves,  the  tide  runs  high, 
As  up  and  down  the  beach  we  flit, — 
One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 


2IO 

Above  our  heads  the  sullen  clouds 

Scud  black  and  swift  across  the  sky ; 
Like  silent  ghosts  in  misty  shrouds 

Stand  out  the  white  lighthouses  high. 
Almost  as  far  as  eye  can  reach 

I  see  the  close-reefed  vessels  fly, 
As  fast  we  flit  along  the  beach, — 

One  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

I  watch  him  as  he  skims  along, 

Uttering  his  sweet  and  mournful  cry. 
He  starts  not  at  my  fitful  song, 

Or  flash  of  fluttering  drapery. 
He  has  no  thought  of  any  wrong ; 

He  scans  me  with  a  fearless  eye. 
Stanch  friends  are  we,  well  tried  and  strong, 

The  little  sandpiper  and  I. 

Comrade,  where  wilt  thou  be  to-night 

When  the  loosed  storm  breaks  furiously  ? 
My  driftwood  fire  will  burn  so  bright  ! 

To  what  warm  shelter  canst  thou  fly  ? 
I  do  not  fear  for  thee,  though  wroth 

The  tempest  rushes  through  the  sky  : 
For  are  we  not  God's  children  both, 

Thou,  little  sandpiper  and  I  ? 


211 


THE   BIRDS   OF   SCOTLAND 

By  Hugh  Macdonald 

THE  birds  of  bonnie  Scotland, 

I  love  them  one  and  all  — 
The  eagle  soaring  high  in  pride, 
The  wren  so  blithe  and  small. 
I  love  the  cushat  in  the  wood, 

The  heron  by  the  stream, 
The  lark    that    sings    the    stars 

asleep, 
The  merle  that  wakes  their  beam. 

0  the  birds  of  dear  old  Scotland, 
I  love  them  every  one  — 

The  owl  that  leaves  the  tower  by  night, 
The  swallow  in  the  sun. 

1  love  the  raven  on  the  rock, 

The  sea-bird  on  the  shore, 
The  merry  chaffinch  in  the  wood, 
And  the  curlew  on  the  moor. 

O  the  birds  of  bonnie  Scotland, 

How  lovely  are  they  all ! 
The  ousel  by  the  forest  spring 

Or  lonely  waterfall  ! 
The  thrush  that  from  the  leafless  bough 

D'lhrhts  the  infant  year, 
The  redbreast  wailing  sad  and  lor>e> 

When  leaves  are  falling  sear. 


212 

O  for  the  time  when  first  I  roamed 

The  woodland  and  the  field, 
A  silent  sharer  in  the  joy 

Each  summer  minstrel  pealed. 
Their  nests  I  knew  them  every  one  — 

In  bank,  or  bush,  or  tree ; 
Familiar  as  a  voice  of  home, 

Their  every  tone  of  glee. 

They  tell  of  birds  in  other  climes 

In  richest  plumage  gay, 
With  gorgeous  tints  that  far  outshine 

An  eastern  king's  array. 
Strangers  to  song  !   more  dear  to  me 

The  linnet,  modest  gray, 
That  pipes  among  the  yellow  broom 

His  wild,  heart-witching  lay. 

More  dear  than  all  their  shining  hues, 

The  wells  of  glee  that  lie 
In  throstle's  matchless  mottled  breast 

Or  merle's  of  ebon  dye. 
And  though  a  lordling's  wealth  were  mine, 

In  some  far  sunny  spot, 
My  heart  could  never  own  a  home 

Where  minstrel  birds  were  not. 

Sweet  wilding  birds  of  Scotland, 

I  loved  ye  when  a  boy, 
And  to  my  soul  your  names  are  linked 

With  dreams  of  vanished  joy. 
And  I  could  wish,  when  death's  cold  hand 


2I3 


Has  stilled  this  heart  of  mine, 

That  o'er  my  last  low  bed  of  earth 

Might  swell  your  notes  divine. 


TO  AN   ORIOLE 

By  Edgar  Fawcett 

OW    falls    it,    oriole,    thou    hast 

come  to  fly 

In  tropic    splendor  through  our 
Northern  sky  ? 

At    some    glad    moment    was   it 

nature's  choice 
To  dower  a  scrap  of  sunset  with 

a  voice  ? 

Or  did  some  orange  tulip,  flaked  with  black, 
In  some  forgotten  garden,  ages  back, 

Yearning  toward  Heaven  until  its  wish  was  heard, 
Desire  unspeakably  to  be  a  bird  ? 


B 


A  TOAD 

By  Edgar  Fawcett 

LUE  dusk,  that  brings  the  dewy  hours, 

Brings  thee,  of  graceless  form  in  sooth, 
Dark  stumbler  at  the  roots  of  flowers, 
Flaccid,  inert,  uncouth. 


I 


214 

Right  ill  can  human  wonder  guess 
Thy  meaning  or  thy  mission  here, 

Gray  lump  of  mottled  clamminess, 
With  that  preposterous  leer ! 

But  when  I  meet  thy  dull  bulk  where 
Luxurious  roses  bend  and  burn, 

Or  some  slim  lily  lifts  to  air 
Its  frail  and  fragrant  urn, 

Of  these,  among  the  garden-ways, 
So  grim  a  watcher  dost  thou  seem, 

That  I,  with  meditative  gaze, 
Look  down  on  thee  and  dream 

Of  thick-lipped  slaves,  with  ebon  skin, 
That  squat  in  hideous  dumb  repose, 

And  guard  the  drowsy  ladies  in 
Their  still  seraglios ! 


A  WHITE  CAMELLIA 

By  Edgar  Fawcett 

MPERIAL  bloom,  whose  every  curve  we  see 

So  glacial  a  symmetry  control, 
Looking,  in  your  pale  odorless  apathy, 
Like  the  one  earthly  flower  that  has  no  soul, 


With  all  sweet  radiance  bathed  in  chill  eclipse, 
Pure  shape  of  colorless  majesty,  you  seem 

The  rose  that  silence  first  laid  on  her  lips, 
Far  back  among  the  shadowy  days  of  dream ! 


215 

By  such  inviolate  calmness  you  are  girt, 

I  doubt,  while  wondering  at  the  spell  it  weaves, 

If  even  decay's  dark  hand  shall  dare  to  hurt 
The  marble  immobility  of  your  leaves  ! 

For  never  sunbeam  yet  had  power  to  melt 
This  virginal  coldness,  absolute  as  though 

Diana's  awful  chastity  still  dwelt 

Regenerate  amid  your  blossoming  snow. 

And  while  my  silent  reverie  deeply  notes 
What  arctic  torpor  in  your  bosom  lies, 

A  wandering  thought  across  my  spirit  floats, 
Like  a  new  bird  along  familiar  skies. 

White  ghost,  in  centuries  past,  has  dread  mischance 
Thus  ruined  your  vivid  warmth,  your  fragrant 
breath, 

While  making  you,  by  merciless  ordinance, 

The  first  of  living  flowers  that  gazed  on  death  ? 

THE  HUMMING-BIRD 

By  John  Banister  tfabb 

A  FLASH  of  harmless  lightning, 
A  mist  of  rainbow  dyes, 
The  burnished  sunbeams  brightening, 
From  flower  to  flower  he  flies : 

While  wakes  the  nodding  blossom, 

But  just  too  late  to  see 
What  lip  hath  touched  her  bosom 

And  drained  her  nectary. 


2l6 

THE   WATER-LILY 

By  John  Banister 


I 


HENCE,    O    fragrant    form    of 

light, 
Hast    thou    drifted   through  the 

night, 

Swanlike,  to  a  leafy  nest, 
On     the     restless     waves,     at 

rest  ? 


Art  thou  from  the  snowy  zone 
Of  a  mountain-summit  blown, 
Or  the  blossom  of  a  dream, 
Fashioned  in  the  foamy  stream  ? 

Nay  ;  methinks  the  maiden  moon, 
When  the  daylight  came  too  soon, 
Fleeting  from  her  bath  to  hide, 
Left  her  garment  in  the  tide. 


THE  SONG-SPARROW* 

By  Henry  van  Dyke 

THERE  is  a  bird  I  know  so  well, 
It  seems  as  if  he  must  have  sung 
Beside  my  crib  when  I  was  young ; 
Before  I  knew  the  way  to  spell 

The  name  of  even  the  smallest  bird, 
His  gentle-joyful  song  I  heard. 


•  From  "  The  Builders  and  other  Poems,"  by  Henry  van  Dyke.     Copy 
right,  1897.  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


Now  see  if  you  can  tell,  my  dear, 

What  bird  it  is  that,  every  year, 

Sings  "  Sweet  — sweet  —  sweet  —  very  merry  cheer." 

He  comes  in  March,  when  winds  are  strong, 

And  snow  returns  to  hide  the  earth ; 

But  still  he  warms  his  heart  with  mirth, 
And  waits  for  May.      He  lingers  long 

While  flowers  fade  ;  and  every  day 

Repeats  his  small,  contented  lay  ; 
As  if  to  say,  we  need  not  fear 
The  season's  change,  if  love  is  here 
With  u  Sweet  —  sweet — sweet — very  merry  cheer*' 

He  does  not  wear  a  Joseph's-coat 

Of  many  colors,  smart  and  gay ; 

His  suit  is  Quaker  brown  and  gray, 
With  darker  patches  at  his  throat. 

And  yet  of  all  the  well-dressed  throng 

Not  one  can  sing  so  brave  a  song. 
It  makes  the  pride  of  looks  appear 
A  vain  and  foolish  thing,  to  hear 
His  "  Sweet  —  sweet  —  sweet  —  very  merry  cheer" 

A  lofty  place  he  does  not  love, 

But  sits  by  choice,  and  well  at  ease, 
In  hedges,  and  in  little  trees 

That  stretch  their  slender  arms  above 
The  meadow-brook  ;  and  there  he  sings 
Till  all  the  field  with  pleasure  rings  ; 

And  so  he  tells  in  every  ear, 

That  lowly  homes  to  heaven  are  near 

In  "  Sweet  —  sweet  —  sweet  —  very  merry  cheer." 


2l8 


I  like  the  tune,  I  like  the  words  ; 

They  seem  so  true,  so  free  from  art, 

So  friendly,  and  so  full  of  heart, 
That  if  but  one  of  all  the  birds 

Could  be  my  comrade  everywhere, 

My  little  brother  of  the  air, 
This  is  the  one  I'd  choose,  my  dear, 
Because  he'd  bless  me,  every  year, 
With  "  Sweet  —  sweet  —  sweet  —  very  merry  cheer* 


\ 


AN   ANGLER'S   WISH 

By  Henry  van  Dyke 


I 

HEN    tulips    bloom    in    Union 

Square, 

And  timid  breaths  of  vernal  air 
Go  wandering  down  the  dusty 

town, 

Like    children    lost     in    Vanity 
Fair; 


When  every  long,  unlovely  row 
Of  westward  houses  stands  aglow, 

And  leads  the  eyes  toward  sunset  skies 
Beyond  the  hills  where  green  trees  grow  j 

Then  weary  seems  the  street  parade, 
And  weary  books,  and  weary  trade : 
I'm  only  wishing  to  go  a-fishing  j 
For  this  the  month  of  May  was  made. 

*  Front  "  The  Builders  and  other  Poems,"  by  Henry  van  Dyke.     Copy 
right,  r&ff,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


219 


II 

I  guess  the  pussy-willows  now 
Are  creeping  out  on  every  bough 

Along  the  brook ;  and  robins  look 
For  early  worms  behind  the  plough. 

The  thistle-birds  have  changed  their  dun, 
For  yellow  coats,  to  match  the  sun ; 

And  in  the  same  array  of  flame 
The  Dandelion  Show  's  begun. 

The  flocks  of  young  anemones 

Are  dancing  round  the  budding  trees  : 

Who  can  help  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  as  full  of  joy  as  these  ? 

Ill 

I  think  the  meadow-lark's  clear  sound 
Leaks  upward  slowly  from  the  ground, 

While  on  the  wing  the  blue-birds  ring 
Their  wedding-bells  to  woods  around. 

The  flirting  chewink  calls  his  dear 
Behind  the  bush ;  and  very  near, 

Where  water  flows,  where  green  grass  grows, 
Song-sparrows  gently  sing,  "  Good  cheer." 

And,  best  of  all,  through  twilight's  calm 
The  hermit-thrush  repeats  his  psalm. 

How  much  I'm  wishing  to    go  a-fishing 
In  days  so  sweet  with  music's  balm  ! 


220 

IV 

'T  is  not  a  proud  desire  of  mine ; 
I  ask  for  nothing  superfine ; 

No  heavy  weight,  no  salmon  great, 
To  break  the  record  —  or  my  line  : 

Only  an  idle  little  stream, 
Whose  amber  waters  softly  gleam, 

Where  I  may  wade,  through  woodland  shade, 
And  cast  the  fly,  and  loaf,  and  dream : 

Only  a  trout  or  two,  to  dart 

From  foaming  pools,  and  try  my  art : 

No  more  I'm  wishing  —  old-fashioned  fishing, 
And  just  a  day  on  Nature's  heart. 

DAWN 

By  Richard  Watson  Gilder 

[HE  night  was  dark,  though  some- 
times a  faint  star 
A  little  while  a  little  space  made 

bright. 
Dark  was  the  night  and  like  an 

iron  bar 
Lay    heavy    on    the    land  —  till 

o'er  the  sea 
Slowly,  within  the  East,  there  grew  a  light 
Which  half  was  starlight,  and  half  seemed  to  be 
The  herald  of  a  greater.     The  pale  white 
Turned  slowly  to  pale  rose,  and  up  the  height 


221 


Of  heaven  slowly  climbed.     The  gray  sea  grew 
Rose-colored  like  the  sky.     A  white  gull  flew 
Straight  toward  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  East 
Where  slowly  the  rose  gathered  and  increased. 
There  was  light  now,  where  all  was  black  before. 
It  was  as  on  the  opening  of  a  door 
By  one  who  in  his  hand  a  lamp  doth  hold, 
(Its  flame  being  hidden  by  the  garment's  fold)  — 
The  still  air  moves,  the  wide  room  is  less  dim. 

More    bright    the    East    became,    the    ocean 

turned 

Dark  and  more  dark  against  the  brightening  sky  — 
Sharper  against  the  sky  the  long  sea  line. 
The  hollows  of  the  breakers  on  the  shore 
Were  green  like  leaves  whereon  no  sun  doth  shine, 
Though  sunlight  make  the  outer  branches  hoar. 
From  rose  to  red  the  level  heaven  burned ; 
Then  sudden,  as  if  a  sword  fell  from  on  high, 
A  blade  of  gold  flashed  on  the  ocean's  rim. 

THE   VOICE  OF   THE   PINE 

By  Richard  Watson  Gilder 

T    •    ^IS    night    upon    the    lake.     Our    bed    of 

*  boughs 

JL      Is  built   where,  high  above,  the  pine-tree 

soughs. 

'Tis  still  —  and  yet  what  woody  noises  loom 
Against  the  background  of  the  silent  gloom  ! 
One  well  might  hear  the  opening  of  a  flower 
If  day  were  hushed  as  this.  A  mimic  shower 


222 


Just  shaken  from  a  branch,  how  large  it  sounded, 
As  'gainst  our  canvas  roof  its  three  drops  bounded  ! 
Across  the  rumpling  waves  the  hoot-owl's  bark 
Tolls  forth  the  midnight  hour  upon  the  dark. 
What  mellow  booming  from  hills  doth  come  ?  — 
The  mountain  quarry  strikes  its  mighty  drum. 

Long  had  we  lain  beside  our  pine-wood  fire, 
From  things  of  sport  our  talk  had  risen  higher. 
How  frank  and  intimate  the  words  of  men 
When  tented  lonely  in  some  forest  glen  ! 
No  dallying  now  with  masks,  from  whence  emerges 
Scarce  one  true  feature   forth.      The  night-wind 

urges 

To  straight  and  simple  speech.    So  we  had  thought 
Aloud  ;  no  secrets  but  to  light  were  brought. 
The  hid  and  spiritual  hopes,  the  wild, 
Unreasoned  longings  that,  from  child  to  child, 
A/Iortals  still  cherish  (though  with  modern  shame) — 
To  these,  and  things  like  these,  we  gave  a  name ; 
And  as  we  talked,  the  intense  and  resinous  fire 
Lit  up  the  towering  boles,  till  nigh  and  nigher 
They  gather  round,  a  ghostly  company, 
Like  beasts  who  seek  to  know  what  men  may  be. 

Then  to  our  hemlock  beds,  but  not  to  sleep  — 
For  listening  to  the  stealthy  steps  that  creep 
About  the  tent,  or  falling  branch,  but  most 
A  noise  was  like  the  rustling  of  a  host, 
Or  like  the  sea  that  breaks  upon  the  shore  — 
It  was  the  pine-tree's  murmur.     More  and  more 
It  took  a  human  sound.     These  words  I  felt 
Into  the  skyey  darkness  float  and  melt : 


223 

u  Heardst  thou  these  wanderers  reasoning  of  a 

time 

When  men  more  near  the  Eternal  One  shall  climb  ? 
How  like  the  new-born  child,  who  cannot  tell 
A  mother's  arm  that  wraps  it  warm  and  well ! 
Leaves  of  His  rose ;  drops  in  His  sea  that  flow,  — 
Are  they,  alas,  so  blind  they  may  not  know 
Here,  in  this  breathing  world  of  joy  and  fear, 
They  can  no  nearer  get  to  God  than  here." 

A   SONG   OF   EARLY   AUTUMN 

By  Richard  Watson  Gilder 

HEN  late  in  summer  the  streams 

run  yellow, 

Burst  the  bridges  and    spread 
into  bays ; 

/When    berries     are    black    and 
A  \A  J   I  %•  peaches  are  mellow, 

And  hills  are  hidden  by  rainy 
haze; 

When  the  goldenrod  is  golden  still, 

But  the   heart  of  the  sunflower  is   darker  and 

sadder ; 
When  the  corn  is  in  stacks  on  the  slope  of  the  hill, 

And  slides  o'er  the  path  the  striped  adder. 

When  butterflies  flutter  from  clover  to  thicket, 
Or  wave  their  wings  on  the  drooping  leaf; 

When  the  breeze  comes  shrill  with  the  call  of  the 

cricket, 
Grasshopper's  rasp,  and  rustle  of  sheaf. 


224 

When  high  in  the  field  the  fern-leaves  wrinkle, 
And  brown  is  the  grass  where  the  mowers  have 
mown; 

When  low  in  the  meadow  the  cow-bells  tinkle, 
And  small  brooks  crinkle  o'er  stock  and  stone. 

When  heavy  and  hollow  the  robin's  whistle 
And  shadows  are  deep  in  the  heat  of  noon ; 

WThen  the  air  is  white  with  the  down  o'  the  thistle, 
And  the  sky  is  red  with  the  harvest  moon ; 

Oh  then  be  chary,  young  Robert  and  Mary, 
No  time  let  slip,  not  a  moment  wait ! 

If  the  fiddle  would  play  it  must  stop  its  tuning, 
And   they  who    would  wed   must    be    done 

with  their  mooning ; 

Let  the  churn  rattle,  see  well  to  the  cattle, 
And  pile  the  wood  by  the  barn-yard  gate ! 


"GREAT   NATURE    IS    AN    ARMY 
GAY" 

By  Richard  Watson  Gilder 

GREAT  nature  is  an  army  gay, 
Resistless  marching  on  its  way  ; 
I  hear  the  bugles  clear  and  sweet, 
I  hear  the  tread  of  million  feet. 

Across  the  plain  I  see  it  pour; 
It  tramples  down  the  waving  grass  ; 
Within  the  echoing  mountain-pass 
I  hear  a  thousand  cannon  roar. 


225 


It  swarms  within  my  garden  gate ; 
My  deepest  well  it  drinketh  dry. 
It  doth  not  rest  ;  it  doth  not  wait  j 
By  night  and  day  it  sweepeth  by  ; 
Ceaseless  it  marches  by  my  door; 
It  heeds  me  not,  though  I  implore. 
[  know  not  whence  it  comes,  nor  where 
It  goes.     For  me  it  doth  not  care  — - 
Whether  I  starve,  or  eat,  or  sleep, 
Or  live,  or  die,  or  sing,  or  weep. 
And  now  the  banners  all  are  bright, 
New  torn  and  blackened  by  the  fight. 
Sometimes  its  laughter  shakes  the  sky, 
Sometimes  the  groans  of  those  who  die. 
Still  through  the  night  and  through  the  livelong  day 
The  infinite  army  marches  on  its  remorseless  way. 

DECEMBER 


By  Joel  Benton 

HEN     the    feud     of     hot     and 

cold 
Leaves  the  autumn  woodlands 

bare  ; 

When  the  year  is  getting  old, 
And  flowers  are  dead,  and  keen 
the  air; 


When  the  crow  has  new  concern, 
And  early  sounds  his  raucous  note ; 

And  —  where  the  late  witch-hazels  burn  — 
The  squirrel  from  a  chuckling  throat 


226 

Tells  that  one  larder's  space  is  filled, 

And  tilts  upon  a  towering  tree ; 
And,  valiant,  quick,  and  keenly  thrilled, 

Upstarts  the  tiny  chickadee; 

When  the  sun's  still  shortening  arc 

Too  soon  night's  shadows  dun  and  gray 

Brings  on,  and  fields  are  drear  and  dark, 
And  summer  birds  have  flown  away, — 

I  feel  the  year's  slow-beating  heart, 
The  sky's  chill  prophecy  I  know ; 

And  welcome  the  consummate  art 

Which  weaves  this  spotless  shroud  of  snow ! 

IN  JUNE 

By  Nora   Perry 

sweet,  so   sweet   the  roses  in 
their  blowing, 

So  sweet  the  daffodils,  so  fair 

to  see  ; 

So  blithe  and  gay  the  humming- 
bird a-going 

From  flower  to  flower,  a-hunt- 
ing  with  the  bee. 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  the  calling  of  the  thrushes, 
The  calling,  cooing,  wooing,  everywhere ; 

So  sweet  the  water's  song  through  reeds  and  rushes, 
The  plover's  piping  note,  now  here,  now  there. 


22; 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  from  off  the  fields  of  clover 
The  west  wind  blowing,  blowing  up  the  hill ; 

So  sweet,  so  sweet  with  news  of  some  one's  lover, 
Fleet  footsteps,  ringing  nearer,  nearer  still. 

So  near,  so  near,  now  listen,  listen  thrushes ; 

Now  plover,  blackbird,  cease,  and  let  me  hear  ; 
And    water,    hush   your    song    through  reeds  and 
rushes 

That  I  may  know  whose  lover  cometh  near. 

So  loud,  so  loud  the  thrushes  kept  their  calling, 
Plover  or  blackbird  never  heeding  me ; 

So  loud  the  mill-stream  too  kept  fretting,  falling, 
O'er    bar   and    bank,    in    brawling,    boisterous 
glee. 

So    loud,    so    loud;    yet    blackbird,    thrush,    nor 

plover, 

Nor  noisy  mill-stream,  in  its  fret  and  fall, 
Could   drown   the   voice,    the    low    voice    of   my 

lover, 
My  lover  calling  through  the  thrushes'  call. 

"  Come  down,  come  down  !  "  he  called,  and  straight 

the  thrushes 
From  mate  to  mate  sang  all  at  once,  "  Come 

down !  " 
And  while  the  water  laughed   through   reeds   and 

rushes, 

The  blackbird  chirped,  the  plover  piped,  "  Come 
down  !  " 


228 


Then   down   and  off,  and    through    the    fields    of 
clover, 

I  followed,  followed,  at  my  lover's  call ; 
Listening  no  more  to  blackbird,  thrush,  or  plover, 

The  water's  laugh,  the  mill-stream's  fret  and  fall. 

AUGUST 

By  William  Davis  Gallagher 

UST  on  my  mantle!  dust, 
Bright  Summer,  on  thy  livery  of 

green  ! 

A  tarnish,  as  of  rust, 
Dims  thy  late-brilliant  sheen  : 
And    thy    young    glories  —  leaf, 

and  bud,  and  flower  — 
Change  cometh  over  them  with  every  hour. 

Thee  hath  the  August  sun 
Looked  on  with  hot,  and  fierce,  and  brassy  face : 

And  still  and  lazily  run, 

Scarce  whispering  in  their  pace, 
The  half-dried  rivulets,  that  lately  sent 
A  shout  of  gladness  up,  as  on  they  went. 

Flame-like,  the  long  mid-day  — 
With  not  so  much  of  sweet  air  as  hath  stirr'd 

The  down  upon  the  spray, 

Where  rests  the  panting  bird, 
Dozing  away  the  hot  and  tedious  noon, 
With  fitful  twitter,  sadly  out  of  tune. 


229 

Seeds  in  the  sultry  air, 
And  gossamer  web-work  on  the  sleeping  trees ! 

E'en  the  tall  pines,  that  rear 

Their  plumes  to  catch  the  breeze, 
The  slightest  breeze  from  the  unrefreshing  west, 
Partake  the  general  languor,  and  deep  rest. 

Happy,  as  man  can  be, 
Stretch'd  on  his  back,  in  homely  bean-vine  bower, 

While  the  voluptuous  bee 

Robs  each  surrounding  flower, 
And  prattling  childhood  clambers  o'er  his  breast, 
The  husbandman  enjoys  his  noon-day  rest. 

Against  the  hazy  sky 
The  thin  and  fleecy  clouds,  unmoving,  rest. 

Beneath  them  far,  yet  high 

In  the  dim,  distant  west, 
The  vulture,  scenting  thence  its  carrion-fare, 
Sails,  slowly  circling  in  the  sunny  air. 

Soberly,  in  the  shade, 
Repose  the  patient  cow,  and  toil-worn  ox ; 

Or  in  the  shoal  stream  wade, 

Sheltered  by  jutting  rocks  : 
The  fleecy  flock,  fly-scourg'd  and  restless,  rush 
Madly  from  fence  to  fence,  from  bush  to  bush. 

Tediously  pass  the  hours, 
And  vegetation  wilts,  with  blistered  root  — 
And  droop  the  thirsting  flow'rs, 
Where  the  slant  sunbeams  shoot : 


230 

But  of  each  tall  old  tree,  the  lengthening  line, 
Slow-creeping  eastward,  marks  the  day's  decline. 

Faster,  along  the  plain, 
Moves  now  the  shade,  and  on  the  meadow's  edge  : 

The  kine  are  forth  again, 

The  bird  flits  in  the  hedge. 
Now  in  the  molten  west  sinks  the  hot  sun. 
Welcome,  mild  eve !  —  the  sultry  day  is  done. 

Pleasantly  comest  thou, 
Dew  of  the  evening,  to  the  crisp'd-up  grass ; 

And  the  curl'd  corn-blades  bow, 

As  the  light  breezes  pass, 

That  their  parch'd  lips  may  feel  thee,  and  expand, 
Thou  sweet  reviver  of  the  fevered  land. 

So,  to  the  thirsting  soul, 
Cometh  the  dew  of  the  Almighty's  love ; 

And  the  scathed  heart,  made  whole, 

Turneth  in  joy  above, 
To  where  the  spirit  freely  may  expand, 
And  rove,  untrammel'd,  in  that  u  better  land." 

THE  CARDINAL   BIRD 

By  William  Davis  Gallagher 

A  DAY  and  then  a  week  passed  by : 
The  redbird  hanging  from  the  sill 
Sang  not;  and  all  were  wondering  why 
It  was  so  still  — 

When  one  bright  morning,  loud  and  clear, 
Its  whistle  smote  my  drowsy  ear, 


231 


Ten  times  repeated,  till  the  sound 
Filled  every  echoing  niche  around ; 
And  all  things  earliest  loved  by  me,  — 
The  bird,  the  brook,  the  flower,  the  tree,  — 
Came  back  again,  as  thus  I  heard 
The  cardinal  bird. 

Where  maple  orchards  towered  aloft, 

And  spicewood  bushes  spread  below, 
Where  skies  were  blue,  and  winds  were  soft, 

I  could  but  go  — 

For,  opening  through  a  wildering  haze, 
Appeared  my  restless  childhood's  days ; 
And  truant  feet  and  loitering  mood 
Soon  found  me  in  the  same  old  wood 
(Illusion's  hour  but  seldom  brings 
So  much  the  very  form  of  things) 
Where  first  I  sought,  and  saw,  and  heard 
The  cardinal  bird. 

Then  came  green  meadows,  broad  and  bright, 

Where  dandelions,  with  wealth  untold, 
Gleamed  on  the  young  and  eager  sight 

Like  stars  of  gold  ; 
And  on  the  very  meadow's  edge, 
Beneath  the  ragged  blackberry  hedge, 
Mid  mosses  golden,  gray  and  green, 
The  fresh  young  buttercups  were  seen, 
And  small  spring-beauties,  sent  to  be 
The  heralds  of  anemone  : 
All  just  as  where  I  earliest  heard 
The  cardinal  bird. 


232 

Upon  the  gray  old  forest's  rim 

I  snuffed  the  crab-tree's  sweet  perfume ; 

And  farther,  where  the  light  was  dim, 
I  saw  the  bloom 

Of  May-apples,  beneath  the  tent 

Of  umbrel  leaves  above  them  bent ; 

Where  oft  was  shifting  light  and  shade 

The  blue-eyed  ivy  wildly  strayed ; 

And  Solomon's-seal,  in  graceful  play, 

Swung  where  the  straggling  sunlight  lay  : 

The  same  as  when  I  earliest  heard 
The  cardinal  bird. 

And  on  the  slope,  above  the  rill 

That  wound  among  the  sugar-trees, 
I  heard  them  at  their  labors  still, 

The  murmuring  bees : 
Bold  foragers  !  that  come  and  go 
Without  permit  from  friend  or  foe; 
In  the  tall  tulip-trees  o'erhead 
On  pollen  greedily  they  fed, 
And  from  low  purple  phlox,  that  grew 
About  my  feet,  sipped  honey-dew :  — 
How  like  the  scenes  when  first  I  heard 
The  cardinal  bird  ! 

How  like!  —  and  yet.  .  .  .  The  spell  grows  weak 
Ah,  but  I  miss  the  sunny  brow  — 

The  sparkling  eye  —  the  ruddy  cheek  ! 
Where,  where  are  now 

The  three  who  then  beside  me  stood 

Like  sunbeams  in  the  dusky  wood  ? 


233 

Alas,  I  am  alone  !     Since  then, 
They've  trod  the  weary  ways  of  men  : 
One  on  the  eve  of  manhood  died  ; 
Two  in  its  flush  of  power  and  pride. 
Their  graves  are  green,  where  first  we  heard 
The  cardinal  bird. 

The  redbird,  from  the  window  hung, 
Not  long  my  fancies  thus  beguiled  : 
Again  in  maple-groves  it  sung 

Its  wood-notes  wild ; 
For,  rousing  with  a  tearful  eye, 
I  gave  it  to  the  trees  and  sky  ! 
I  missed  so  much  those  brothers  three, 
Who  walked  youth's  flowery  ways  with  me, 
I  could  not,  dared  not  but  believe 
It  too  had  brothers,  that  would  grieve 
Till  in  old  haunts  again  't  was  heard,  — 
The  cardinal  bird. 


THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW 

By  Mary  Isabella  Forsyth 
O  dainty  in  plumage  and  hue, 


S 


A  study  in  grey  and  in  brown, 
How  little,  how  little  we  knew 
The  pest  he  would  prove  to  the  town  ! 

From  dawn  until  daylight  grows  dim, 

Perpetual  chatter  and  scold. 
No  winter  migration  for  him, 

Not  even  afraid  of  the  cold  ! 


234 

Scarce  a  song-bird  he  fails  to  molest, 
Belligerent,  meddlesome  thing  ! 

Wherever  he  goes  as  a  guest 

He  is  sure  to  remain  as  a  King. 

Yet,  from  tip  of  his  tail  to  his  beak, 

I  like  him,  the  sociable  elf. 
The  reason  is  needless  to  seek,  — 

Because  I'm  a  gossip  myself. 

TO  A  TROUBLESOME  FLY 

By  Thomas  MacKellar 

HAT !    here    again,    indomitable 

pest ! 
Thou  plagu'st  me  like  a  pep- 

per-temper'd  sprite ; 
Thou  makest  me  the  butt  of 


And  bitest  me,  and  buzzest  as  in 

jest. 

Ten  times  I've  closed  my  heavy  lids  in  vain 
This  early  morn  to  court  an  hour  of  sleep ; 
For  thou  —  tormentor  !  —  constantly  dost  keep 
Thy   whizzing    tones    resounding    through    my 

brain, 

Or  lightest  on  my  sensitive  nose,  and  there 
Thou  trimmest  thy  wings  and  shak'st  thy  legs  of  hair : 
Ten  times  I've  raised  my  hand  in  haste  to  smite, 
But  thou  art  off;  and  ere  I  lay  my  head 
And  fold  mine  arms  in  quiet  on  my  bed, 

Thou  com'st  again — and  tak'st  another  bite. 


235 

As  Uncle  Toby  says,  u  The  world  is  wide 
Enough  for  thee  and  me."     Then  go,  I  pray, 
And  through  this  world  do  take  some  other  way, 
And  let  us  travel  no  more  side  by  side. 

Go,  live  among  the  flowers ;  go  anywhere  ; 
Or  to  the  empty  sugar-hogshead  go, 
That  standeth  at  the  grocer's  store  below ; 

Go  suit  thy  taste  with  any  thing  that's  there. 
There's  his  molasses-measure ;  there's  his  cheese, 
And  ham    and    herring  :  —  What  !     will    nothing 

please  ? 
Presumptuous  imp  !    then  die  !  —  But  no  !   I'll 

smite 

Thee  not ;  for  thou,  perchance,  art  young  in  days, 
And  rather  green  as  yet  in  this  world's  ways ; 
So  live  and  suffer  —  age  may  set  thee  right. 

ODE   TO   AUTUMN 

By  John  Keats 

lEASON    of   mists    and    mellow 

fruitfulness  ! 
Close     bosom-friend     of    the 

maturing  sun  ; 
Conspiring    with    him    how    to 

load  and  bless 

With     fruit     the    vines    that 
round  the  thatch-eaves  run  ; 
To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel-shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel  ;  to  set  budding  more, 


And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease ; 
For  Summer   has   o'erbrimm'd  their  clammy 
cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume   of  poppies,  while  thy 

hook 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flow- 
ers ; 

And  sometime  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 
Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the    last    oozings,  hours   by 
hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  spring  ?     Ay,  where  are 

they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too,  — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river-sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing,  and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


237 

ODE   TO   A   NIGHTINGALE 

By  John  Keats 

Written    in  the  spring  of    1819,   when    suffering 

from  physical  depression,  the  precursor  of  his 

death,  which  happened  soon  after. 

heart     aches,    and    a    drowsy 

numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hem- 
lock I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to 

the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe- 
ward  had  sunk  : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness,  — 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

Oh  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,     and     Provencal    song,    and    sunburnt 
mirth ! 

Oh  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 


238 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth ; 

That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,   where    men    sit    and    hear   each    other 

groan  ; 

Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs ; 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and   specter-thin,  and 

dies  ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs, 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or    new    Love    pine    at    them    beyond    to- 
morrow. 

Away  !  away !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save    what    from  heaven   is    with    the    breezes 

blown 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 


239 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  j 
White  hawthorn  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets,  covered  up  in  leaves  ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and,  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain,  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  ; 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart   of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for 

home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 

The  same  that  ofttimes  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy-lands  forlorn. 


240 


Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 
Adieu  !  the  Fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !   adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  't  is  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  :  —  Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 


THOUGHTS   IN  A  GARDEN 

By  Andrew  Marcell 

IOW     vainly     men      themselves 

amaze, 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,   or 

bays, 

And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crowned  from   some  single  herb 

or  tree, 

Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear  ? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 


24 1 

Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow : 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress*  name : 
Little,  alas !  they  know  or  heed 
How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed  ! 
Fair  trees  !  where'er  your  barks  I  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passion's  heat 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 
The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race ; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so, 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow ; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head  ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine ; 
The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach, 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach  ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness, — 


242 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance   find, 
Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 
Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas, 
Annihilating  all  that's  made 
To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  garden-state 
While  man  there  walk'd  without  a  mate : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet ! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there : 
Two  paradises  are  in  one, 
To  live  in  Paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run, 
And,  as  it  works,  th'  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we ! 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckon'd  but  with  herbs  and  flowers ! 


243 

SHADOWS 

By  William  Sloane  Kennedy 

HE  moon  a  light  -  hung  world 
of  gold, 

Low-drooping,  pale,  and  phan- 
tom-fair ; 

The  fresh  pomp  of  the  summer 
leaves, 

And  fragrance  in  the  breathing 
air. 

Beneath  the  trees  flat  silhouettes, 
Mute  idiot  shapes  that  shun  the  light, 
Weird  crook-kneed  things,  a  fickle  crew, 
The  restless  children  of  the  night. 

In  idle  vacant  pantomime 

They  nod  and  nod  forevermore, 

And  clutch  with  aimless  fluttering  hands, 

With  thin  black  hands  the  leaf-strewn  floor. 

8uivering,  wavering  there  forever 
n  the  bright  and  silent  ground, 
Meshed  and  tangled  there  together 
While  the  rolling  earth  goes  round, 

And  the  gold-tinged  aery  ocean 
Ripples  light  in  many  a  breeze 
O'er  the  sweet-breathed  purple  lilac, 
O'er  the  tall  and  slumbering  trees. 


244 

THE   PIPE   OF   PAN 

By  Elizabeth  Akers 

[ERE  in  this  wild,  primeval  dell 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  man, 
Where  never  fashion's  footsteps 

fell, 
Where  shriek  of  steam  nor  clang 

of  bell, 
Nor  din  of  those  who  buy  and 

sell, 

Has  broken  Nature's  perfect  spell, 
May  one  not  hear,  who  listens  well, 
The  mystic  pipe  of  Pan  ? 

So  virgin  and  unworldly  seem 

All  things  in  this  deep  glade 
Thick  curtained  from  the  noonday  beam, 
That,  hearkening,  one  may  almost  dream 
Fair  naiads  plashing  in  the  stream, 
While  graceful  limbs  and  tresses  gleam 

Along  the  dim  green  shade. 

The  cool  brook  runs  as  clear  and  sweet 

As  ever  water  ran ; 
I  almost  hear  the  rhythmic  beat 
Of  pattering  footfalls,  light  and  fleet, 
As  Daphne  speeds,  with  flying  feet 
To  hide  with  leaves  her  safe  retreat, — 

But  not  the  pipe  of  Pan. 


245 

On  yonder  rocky  mountain's  sides 

Do  oreads  dance  and  climb  ? 
In  that  dark  grot  what  nymph  abides  ? 
And  when  the  freakish  wind-god  rides, 
Do  sylphs  float  on  the  breezy  tides, 
While  in  the  hollow  tree-trunk  hides 
The  dryad  of  old  time  ? 

Or  is  the  world  so  changed  to-day 

That  all  the  sylvan  clan, 
Nymph,  dryad,  oread,  sylph  and  fay 
Have  flown  forevermore  away, 
So,  though  we  watch,  and  wait,  and  pray, 
Never  again  on  earth  will  play 

The  witching  pipe  of  Pan  ? 

Come,  sit  on  yonder  stone  and  play 

O  Pan,  thy  pipe  of  reeds, 
As  when  the  earth  was  young  and  gay, 
Long  ere  this  dull  and  sordid  day, — 
Play  till  we  learn  thy  simple  lay, 
And  grief  and  discord  fade  away, 

And  selfish  care  recedes  ! 

O,  darkened  sense  !      O,  dense,  deaf  ear  ! 

The  world  has  placed  its  ban 
Against  the  genii,  once  so  dear, 
And  strife  and  greed,  for  many  a  year, 
Have  spoiled  the  sweet  old  atmosphere, 
So,  though  he  play,  we  cannot  hear 

The  wondrous  pipe  of  Pan  ! 


246 


THE   MIRACLE-WORKERS 

By  Elizabeth  Akers 

HO   had   seen  them,   the  mystic 

sprites, 
The  working   forces  of  earth 

and  air, 
And    light    and    water,     which, 

days  and  nights, 
Labor  incessantly  everywhere  ? 
Those  wondrous  powers  which  since  the  birth 

Of  growing  things,  when  the  first  leaf  sprung, 
Have  kept  the  gracious  and  fruitful  earth 
Renewed  with  years,  and  forever  young. 

They  taper  the  sprout  to  pierce  the  mould 

Of  the  yielding  earth  in  the  early  spring, 
They  edge  the  columbine's  red  with  gold, 

And  paint  the  tanager's  brilliant  wing, — 
They  pencil  lightly  with  tender  pink 

The  pale  spring-beauty,  that  hides  her  flowers 
In  chilly  hollows,  where  snowdrifts  shrink 

Under  April's  persistent  showers. 

They  hang  the  boughs  of  the  chestnut-tree 

With  slender  tassels  of  swinging  bloom  ; 
They  wake  the  chrysalis  tenderly 

And  call  forth  life  from  its  winter  tomb; 
They  flatter  the  strawberry's  white  to  red, 

And  dint  its  coral  with  amber  seeds ; 
They  honey  the  tubes  of  the  clover-heads, 

And  gild  the  ear-drops  of  jewel-weeds. 


247 

They  trim  the  lanterns  of  living  light 

That  sail  the  air  in  the  summer  eves  ; 
They  stretch  the  gossamers  in  the  night, 

They  curl  the  tendrils,  and  notch  the  leaves. 
They  lead  the  bee  to  the  buckwheat-blooms 

Whose  hidden  nectar  he  else  might  miss  ; 
They  deck  with  garlands  of  silky  plumes 

The  clambering  length  of  the  clematis. 

They  weave  unseen  in  some  magic  loom 

The  grass-spread  cobwebs,  bedropt  with  light, 
And  blow  to  sudden  and  fragrant  bloom 

The  evening-primrose  buds  at  night ; 
They  teach  the  ox-eyes  to  dance  and  swing, 

And     top    the    grass -waves     like    milk-white 

froth, 
They  girdle  the  wasp  with  a  golden  ring, 

And  powder  with  silver  the  candle-moth. 

They  drape  the  curtains  of  morning  mist,  — 

They  bridge  with  rainbows  the  cataract's  flood, 
They  prank  the  pansy,  and  deftly  twist 

The  point  of  the  morning-glory  bud  ; 
They  give  the  earthquake  its  awful  force ; 

The  dread  volcano  obeys  their  word ; 
They  rouse  the  whirlwind  and  shape  its  course,— 

And  bronze  the  neck  of  the  humming-bird. 

They  round  the  dew-drop  that  winks  and  shines 
Like  a  diamond-spark  when  the  grass  is  wet ; 

They  trace  with  purple  the  dainty  lines 
In  the  cup  of  the  shy  white  violet ; 


248 

They  warm  the  peach  with  a  scarlet  streak, 
And  touch  its  velvet  with  rich  perfume ; 

They  redden  the  ripening  apple's  cheek, 
And  dust  the  grape  with  its  azure  bloom. 

They  shape  the  snowflakes  in  perfect  forms 

Of  stars  and  crosses  and  tiny  spheres ; 
They  beckon  the  tides  and  rule  the  storms, 

And  rend  the  rocks  of  a  thousand  years,  — 
But  who  shall  see  them,  the  wondrous  powers 

Of  earth  and  water  and  light  and  air 
Which  counting  cycles  as  only  hours, 

Labor  incessantly  everywhere  ? 


SNOW 

By  Elizabeth  Akers 

O,  what  wonders  the    day  hath 

brought, 

Born   of  the    soft  and  slum- 
brous snow  ! 

Gradual,  silent,  slowly  wrought ; 
Even   as    an    artist,   thought  by 

thought, 
Writes  expression  on  lip  and  brow. 

Hanging  garlands  the  caves  o'erbrim, 
Deep  drifts  smother  the  paths  below ; 

The  elms  are  shrouded,  trunk  and  limb, 

And  all  the  air  is  dizzy  and  dim 

With  a  whirl  of  dancing,  dazzling  snow. 


249 

Dimly  out  of  the  baffled  sight 

Houses  and  church-spires  stretch  away ; 
The  trees,  all  spectral  and  still  and  white, 
Stand  up  like  ghosts  in  the  failing  light, 

And  fade  and  faint  with  the  blinded  day. 

Down  from  the  roofs  in  gusts  are  hurled 

The  eddying  drifts  to  the  waste  below ; 
And  still  is  the  banner  of  storm  unfurled, 
Till  all  the  drowned  and  desolate  world 
Lies  dumb  and  white  in  a  trance  of  snow. 

Slowly  the  shadows  gather  and  fall, 
Still  the  whispering  snow-flakes  beat ; 

Night  and  darkness  are  over  all : 

Rest,  pale  city,  beneath  their  pall ! 

Sleep,  white  world,  in  thy  winding-sheet ! 

Clouds  may  thicken,  and  storm-winds  breathe 

On  my  wall  is  a  glimpse  of  Rome,  — 
Land  of  my  longing  !  —  and  underneath 
Swings  and  trembles  my  olive-wreath; 
Peace  and  I  are  at  home,  at  home  ! 


THE  BROOK 

By  Alfred  Tennyson 

I  COME  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 
I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 
To  bicker  down  a  valley. 


250 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 


251 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

THE   DRAGON-FLY 

(From  «  The  Two  Voices  ") 
By  Alfred  Tennyson 

TO-DAY  I  saw  the  dragon-fly 
Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 
"  An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk :   from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 


252 


"  He  dried  his  wings  :   like  gauze  they  grew ; 
Thro*  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A  living  flash  of  light  he  flew." 


THE   BLACKBIRD 

By  Alfred  Tennyson 

BLACKBIRD  !  sing  me  some- 
thing well : 
While  all  the  neighbors  shoot 

thee  round, 
I  keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful 

ground, 

Where  thou  may'st  warble,  eat 
and  dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 

Are  thine ;  the  range  of  lawn  and  park  : 
The  unnetted  black-hearts  ripen  dark, 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho'  I  spared  thee  all  the  spring, 

Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still, 

With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 
To  fret  the  summer  jenneting. 

A  golden  bill !  the  silver  tongue, 

Cold  February  loved,  is  dry  : 

Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 
That  made  thee  famous  once,  when  young : 


253 

And  in  the  sultry  garden-squares, 

Now  thy  flute-notes  are  changed  to  coarse, 

I  hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 
As  when  a  hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning !   he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue, 
Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are  new, 

Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


A   FAREWELL 

By  Alfred  Tennyson 


LOW  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the 

sea, 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver : 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall 

be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river : 
No  where  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver  ; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


254 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

THE  EAGLE 

(Fragment) 
By  Alfred  Tennyson 

E    clasps    the   crag  with   hooked 

hands ; 

Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ring'd  with  the  azure  world,  he 

stands. 

The   wrinkled   sea   beneath  him 

crawls ; 

He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 

BREAK,   BREAK,   BREAK 

By  Alfred  Tennyson 

BREAK,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 


255 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


AUTUMN 

(From  "  In  Memoriam  ") 

By  Alfred  Tennyson 

ALM    is    the    morn    without    a 

sound, 
Calm    as    to    suit  a   calmer 

grief, 

And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 
The    chestnut    pattering    to    the 
ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 

And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 

That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 


256 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 

These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


THE  THROSTLE 

By  Alfred  Tennyson 

UMMER    is    coming,    summer 

is  coming. 
I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know 

it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again, 

love  again," 
Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"  New,  new,  new,  new  !  "     Is  it  then  so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly  ? 

"  Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again,  young  again," 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy  ! 
And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 


257 

"  Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy  year ! 

O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden  ! 
Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear, 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden." 


APRIL   DAYS 

(From  "  In  Memoriam  ") 
By  Alfred  Tennyson 

IP     down     upon     the     northern 

shore, 
O    sweet    new-year    delaying 

long; 
Thou  doest   expectant   nature 

wrong  ; 
Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 

The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 

Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew, 
Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

O  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 

Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 

That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 
And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 


258 


EARLY   SPRING 


By  Alfred  Tennyson 


CE  more  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new, 

And  domes  the  red-plow'd  hills 
With  loving  blue ; 

The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 
The  throstles  too. 


II 


Opens  a  door  in 'Heaven; 

From  skies  of  glass 
A  Jacob's  ladder  falls 

On  greening  grass, 
And  o'er  the  mountain-walls 

Young  angels  pass. 


Ill 

Before  them  fleets  the  shower, 

And  burst  the  buds, 
And  shine  the  level  lands, 

And  flash  the  floods; 
The  stars  are  from  their  hands 

Flung  thro'  the  woods, 


259 

IV 

The  woods  with  living  airs 

How  softly  fann'd, 
Light  airs  from  where  the  deep, 

All  down  the  sand, 
Is  breathing  in  his  sleep, 

Heard  by  the  land. 

V 

O  follow,  leaping  blood, 

The  season's  lure  ! 
O  heart,  look  down  and  up, 

Serene,  secure, 
Warm  as  the  crocus  cup, 

Like  snow-drops,  pure  ! 

VI 

Past,  Future  glimpse  and  fade 
Thro'  some  slight  spell, 

Some  gleam  from  yonder  vale. 
Some  far  blue  fell, 

And  sympathies,  how  frail, 
In  sound  and  smell ! 

VII 

Till  at  thy  chuckled  note, 

Thou  twinkling  bird, 
The  fairy  fancies  range, 

And,  lightly  stirred, 
Ring  little  bells  of  change 

From  word  to  word. 


26o 

VIII 

For  now  the  Heavenly  Power 
Makes  all  things  new, 

And  thaws  the  cold,  and  fills 
The  flower  with  dew  ; 

The  blackbirds  have  their  wills, 
The  poets  too. 


SPRING 

(From  "  In  Memoriam  ") 
By  Alfred  Tennyson 

OW  fades  the  last  long  streak  of 

snow, 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of 

quick 
About  the  flowering  squares, 

and  thick 
By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 

The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 

And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 
The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea ; 


26 1 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood  ;  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land ;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too ;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds,  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 


THE   SHELL 

(From  "  Maud") 
By  Alfred  Tennyson 

I 

EE  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  fairily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design  ! 

II 

What  is  it  ?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 


262 

III 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill  ? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl'd, 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
Thro*  his  dim  water-world  ? 

IV 

Slight,  to  be  crush'd  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three  decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand ! 

"I   AM   AN   ACME  OF   THINGS 
ACCOMPLISHED  " 

(From  "Walt  Whitman  ") 
By  Walt  Whitman 

I  AM  an  acme  of  things  accomplished,  and  I 
an  encloser  of  things  to  be. 
My    feet    strike    an    apex    of  the    apices    of 
the  stairs ; 


On  every  step  bunches  of  ages,  and  larger  bunches 

between  the  steps ; 
All  below   duly  travell'd,   and  still   I    mount   and 

mount. 

Rise  after  rise  bow  the  phantoms  behind  me ; 
Afar  down  I  see  the  huge  first  Nothing  —  I  know 

I  was  even  there  ; 
I  waited  unseen  and  always,  and  slept  through  the 

lethargic  mist, 
And  took  my  time,  and  took  no  hurt  from  the  fetid 

carbon. 

Long  I  was  hugg'd  close  —  long  and  long. 

Immense  have  been  the  preparations  for  me, 
Faithful  and  friendly  the  arms  that  have  help'd  me. 

Cycles  ferried  my  cradle,  rowing  and   rowing  like 

cheerful  boatmen ; 

For  room  to  me  stars  kept  aside  in  their  own  rings; 
They  sent  influences  to  look  after  what  was   to 

hold  me. 

Before  I  was  born  out  of  my  mother,  generations 

guided  me. 
My  embryo  has  never  been  torpid —  nothing  could 

overlay  it. 

For  it  the  nebula  cohered  to  an  orb, 
The  long  slow  strata  piled  to  rest  it  on, 
Vast  vegetables  gave  it  sustenance, 
Monstrous  sauroids  transported  it  in  their  mouths, 
and  deposited  it  with  care. 


264 

All  forces  have  been  steadily  employ'd  to  complete 

and  delight  me  ; 
Now  on  this  spot  I  stand  with  my  robust  Soul. 


THE  MICROCOSM 

(From  "Walt  Whitman") 

By  Walt  Whitman 

BELIEVE  a  leaf  of  grass  is  no 
less  than  the  journey-work 
of  the  stars, 

And  the  pismire  is  equally  per- 
fect, and   a   grain   of  sand, 
and  the  egg  of  the  wren, 
And    the    tree-toad    is    a    chef- 
d'oeuvre  for  the  highest, 
And  the  running  blackberry  would  adorn  the  parlors 

of  heaven, 
And  the  narrowest  hinge  in  my  hand  puts  to  scorn 

all  machinery, 

And  the  cow  crunching  with  depressed  head  sur- 
passes any  statue, 
And  a  mouse  is  miracle  enough  to   stagger  sextil- 

lions  of  infidels, 

And  I  could  come  every  afternoon  of  my  life  to 
look  at  the  farmer's  girl  boiling  her  iron  tea- 
kettle and  baking  short-cake. 


26s 

I  find  I  incorporate  gneiss,  coal,  long-threaded  moss, 

fruits,  grains,  esculent  roots, 
And  am  stucco'd   with  quadrupeds    and   birds  all 

over, 
And  have  distanced  what  is  behind  me  for  good 

reasons, 
And  call  anything  close  again,  when  I  desire  it. 

In  vain  the  speeding  or  shyness ; 

In  vain  the  plutonic  rocks  send  their  old  heat 
against  my  approach ; 

In  vain  the  mastodon  retreats  beneath  its  own 
powder'd  bones  ; 

In  vain  objects  stand  leagues  off,  and  assume  mani- 
fold shapes  j 

In  vain  the  ocean  settling  in  hollows,  and  the  great 
monsters  lying  low ; 

In  vain  the  buzzard  houses  herself  with  the  sky ; 

In  vain  the  snake  slides  through  the  creepers  and 
logs; 

In  vain  the  elk  takes  to  the  inner  passes  of  the 
woods  ; 

In  vain  the  razor-bill'd  auk  sails  far  north  to  Lab- 
rador ; 

I  follow  quickly,  I  ascend  to  the  nest  in  the  fissure 
of  the  cliff. 


266 

"OXEN   THAT   RATTLE   THE 
YOKE   AND   CHAIN" 

.   (From  "Walt  Whitman") 

By  Walt  Whitman 

XEN   that   rattle   the    yoke  and 
chain,  or  halt  in  the  leafy 
shade  ! 
What   is   that  you  express  in 

your  eyes  ? 

It  seems  to  me  more  than  all  the 
print  I  have  read  in  my 
life. 

My  tread  scares  the  wood-drake   and  the  wood- 
duck,  on  my  distant  and  day-long  ramble  ; 
They  rise  together  —  they  slowly  circle  around. 

I  believe  in  those  wing'd  purposes, 

And  acknowledge  red,  yellow,  white,  playing  with- 
in me, 

And  consider  green  and  violet,  and  the  tufted 
crown,  intentional ; 

And  do  not  call  the  tortoise  unworthy  because  she 
is  not  something  else  ; 

And  the  jay  in  the  woods  never  studied  the  gamut, 
yet  trills  pretty  well  to  me ; 

And  the  look  of  the  bay  mare  shames  silliness  out 
of  me. 


267 


BARE-BOSOM'D   NIGHT 

(From  "  Walt  Whitman  ") 

By  Walt  Whitman 

AM  he  that  walks  with  the  ten- 
der and  growing  night ; 

I  call  to  the  earth  and  sea,  half- 
held  by  the  night. 

Press  close,  bare-bosom'd  night ! 

Press  close,  magnetic,  nourishing 

night  ! 

Night  of  south  winds  !  night  of  the  large  few  stars ! 
Still,  nodding  night !   mad,  naked,  summer  night. 

Smile,  O  voluptuous,  cool-breath'd  earth  ! 
Earth  of  the  slumbering  and  liquid  trees  ; 
Earth  of  departed  sunset !  earth  of  the  mountains, 
misty-topt  ! 

Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon,  just 

tinged  with  blue ! 

Earth  of  shine  and  dark,  mottling  the  tide  of  the  river! 
Earth  of  the  limpid   gray  of  clouds,  brighter  and 

clearer  for  my  sake  ! 
Far-swooping  elbow'd  earth  !   rich,  apple-blossom'd 

earth ! 
Smile,  for  your  lover  comes  ! 

Prodigal,  you  have  given  me  love  !   Therefore  I  to 

you  give  love  ! 
O  unspeakable,  passionate  love  ! 


268 


YOU   SEA! 

(From  "  Walt  Whitman  ") 

By  Walt  Whitman 

OU  sea !   I  resign  myself  to  you 
also  —  I    guess    what   you 
mean; 
I   behold    from   the   beach    your 

crooked  inviting  fingers  ; 
I  believe  you  refuse  to  go  back 

without  feeling  of  me ; 
We  must   have  a  turn  together  —  I  undress  — 

hurry  me  out  of  sight  of  the  land  ; 
Cushion  me  soft,  rock  me  in  billowy  drowse ; 
Dash  me  with  amorous  wet  —  I  can  repay  you. 

Sea  of  stretch'd  ground-swells  ! 

Sea  breathing  broad  and  convulsive  breaths ! 

Sea   of  the   brine  of  life  !    sea  of  unshovell'd  yet 

always-ready  graves ! 
Howler  and  scooper    of    storms !    capricious  and 

dainty  sea  ! 
I  am  integral  with  you  —  I  too  am  of  one  phase, 

and  of  all  phases. 


269 
THIS   COMPOST 

(From  "  Leaves  of  Grass  ") 

By  Walt  Whitman 

i 
IOMETHING  startles  me  where 

I  thought  I  was  safest ; 
I  withdraw  from  the  still  woods 

I  loved  ; 

I  will  not  go  now  on  the  past- 
ures to  walk  ; 

I  will  not  strip  the  clothes  from 
my  body  to  meet  my  lover 
the  sea; 

I  will  not  touch  my  flesh  to   the  earth,  as  to  other 
flesh,  to  renew  me. 

2 

O  how  can  it  be  that  the  ground  itself  does  not 

sicken  ? 

How  can  you  be  alive,  you  growths  of  spring  ? 
How  can   you   furnish   health,  you  blood  of  herbs, 

roots,  orchards,  grain  ? 
Are    they     not    continually     putting    distempered 

corpses  within  you  ? 
Is  not  every  continent  work'd  over  and  over  with 

sour  dead  ? 

Where  have  you  disposed  of  their  carcasses  ? 
Those  drunkards  and  gluttons  of  so  many  genera- 
tions 


270 

Where  have  you  drawn  off  all  the  foul  liquid  and 
meat  ? 

I  do  not  see  any  of  it  upon  you  to-day  —  or  per- 
haps I  am  deceiv'd ; 

I  will  run  a  furrow  with  my  plough  —  I  will 
press  my  spade  through  the  sod,  and  turn  it  up 
underneath ; 

I  am  sure  I  shall  expose  some  of  the  foul  meat. 

3 

Behold  this  compost !  behold  it  well  ! 
Perhaps  every  mite  has   once  form'd  part  of  a  sick 

person  —  Yet  behold  ! 
The  grass  of  spring  covers  the  prairies, 
The  bean  bursts  noiselessly  through  the  mould  in 

the  garden, 

The  delicate  spear  of  the  onion  pierces  upward, 
The   apple-buds    cluster   together    on    the   apple- 
branches, 
The  resurrection  of  the  wheat  appears  with  pale 

visage  out  of  its  graves, 
The  tinge  awakes  over  the  willow-tree   and    the 

mulberry-tree, 
The  he-birds  carol  mornings  and  evenings,   while 

the  she-birds  sit  on  their  nests, 
The  young  of  poultry  break  through   the  hatched 

eggs, 
The  new-born  of  animals  appear  —  the  calf  is  dropt 

from  the  cow,  the  colt  from  the  mare, 
Out  of  its  little  hill  faithfully  rise  the  potato's  dark 

green  leaves, 


Out  of  its  hill   rises   the  yellow  maize-stalk  —  the 

lilacs  bloom  in  the  door-yards  ; 
The  summer  growth    is   innocent  and    disdainful 

above  all  those  strata  of  sour  dead. 
What  chemistry  ! 

That  the  winds  are  really  not  infectious, 
That  this  is  no  cheat,  this  transparent  green-wash 

of  the  sea,  which  is  so  amorous  after  me, 
That  it  is  safe  to  allow  it   to  lick  my  naked  body 

all  over  with  its  tongues, 
That  it  will  not  endanger  me  with  the  fevers  that 

have  deposited  themselves  in  it, 
That  all  is  clean  forever  and  forever. 
That  the  cool  drink  from  the  well  tastes  so  good, 
That  blackberries  are  so  flavorous  and  juicy, 
That  the  fruits  of  the  apple-orchard,  and  of  the 

orange-orchard  —  that  melons,  grapes,  peaches, 

plums,  will  none  of  them  poison  me, 
That  when  I  recline  on  the  grass  I  do  not  catch 

any  disease, 
Though  probably  every  spear  of  grass   rises  out  of 

what  was  once  a  catching  disease. 

4 

Now  I  am  terrified  at  the  Earth !  it  is  that  calm  and 

patient, 

It  grows  such  sweet  things  out  of  such  corruptions, 
It  turns   harmless  and   stainless   on   its  axis,  with 

such  endless  successions  of  diseas'd  corpses, 
It  distils  such  exquisite  winds   out  of  such  infused 

fetor, 


272 

It  renews  with   such  unwitting   looks,  its  prodigal, 

annual,  sumptuous  crops, 
It  gives  such  divine  materials  to  men,  and  accepts 

such  leavings  from  them  at  last. 


THERE  WAS    A   CHILD   WENT 
FORTH 

(From  "  Leaves  of  Grass  ") 
By  Walt  Whitman 

HERE  was  a  child  went  forth 
every  day; 

And  the  first  object  he  look'd  up- 
on, that  object  he  became  ; 

And  that  object  became  part  of 
him  for  the  day,  or  a  certain 
part  of  the  day,  or  for  many 
years,  or  stretching  cycles  of 
years. 

The  early  lilacs  became  part  of  this  child, 

And  grass,  and  white  and  red  morning-glories,  and 
white  and  red  clover,  and  the  song  of  the  phoebe- 
bird, 

And  the  Third-month  lambs,  and  the  sow's  pink- 
faint  litter,  and  the  mare's  foal,  and  the  cow's 
calf, 

And  the  noisy  brood  of  the  barn-yard,  or  by  the 
mire  of  the  pond-side, 


273 

And  the  fish  suspending  themselves  so  curiously 
below  there  —  and  the  beautiful  curious 
liquid, 

And  the  water-plants  with  their  graceful  flat  heads 
—  all  became  part  of  him. 

The  field-sprouts  of  Fourth-month  and  Fifth- 
month  became  part  of  him  ; 

Winter-grain  sprouts,  and  those  of  the  light-yellow 
corn,  and  the  esculent  roots  of  the  garden, 

And  the  apple-trees  cover'd  with  blossoms,  and 
the  fruit  afterward,  and  wood-berries,  and  the 
commonest  weeds  by  the  road ; 

And  the  old  drunkard  staggering  home  from  the 
out-house  of  the  tavern,  whence  he  had  lately 
risen, 

And  the  school-mistress  that  pass'd  on  her  way  to 
the  school, 

And  the  friendly  boys  that  pass'd  —  and  the  quarrel- 
some boys, 

And  the  tidy  and  fresh-cheek'd  girls  —  and  the 
barefoot  negro  boy  and  girl, 

And  all  the  changes  of  city  and  country,  wherever 
he  went. 

His  own  parents, 

He  that  had   fathered  him,  and  she  that  had  con- 

ceiv'd  him  in  her  womb,  and  birth'd  him, 
They    gave   this    child   more   of  themselves    than 

that ; 
They  gave  him  afterward  every  day  —  they  became 

part  of  him. 


274 

The  mother  at  home,  quietly  placing  the  dishes  on 

the  supper-table  ; 
The  mother  with   mild  words  —  clean  her  cap  and 

gown,  a  wholesome  odor  falling  off  her  person 

and  clothes  as  she  walks  by ; 
The  father,   strong,    self-sufficient,  manly,    mean, 

anger'd,  unjust ; 
The  blow,  the  quick  loud  word,  the  tight  bargain, 

the  crafty  lure, 

The  family  usages,  the  language,  the  company,  the 
furniture  —  the  yearning  and  swelling  heart, 

Affection  that  will  not  be  gainsay'd — the  sense 
of  what  is  real  —  the  thought  if,  after  all,  it 
should  prove  unreal, 

The  doubts  of  day-time  and  the  doubts  of  night- 
time—  the  curious  whether  and  how, 

Whether  that  which  appears  so  is  so,  or  is  it  all 
flashes  and  specks  ? 

Men  and  women  crowding  fast  in  the  streets  —  if 
they  are  not  flashes  and  specks,  what  are  they  ? 

The  streets  themselves,  and  the  facades  of  houses, 
and  goods  in  the  windows, 

Vehicles,  teams,  the  heavy-plank'd  wharves  —  the 
huge  crossing  at  the  ferries, 

The  village  on  the  highland,  seen  from  afar  at  sun- 
set —  the  river  between, 

Shadows,  aureola  and  mist,  the  light  falling  on 
roofs  and  gables  of  white  or  brown,  two  miles 
off, 

The  schooner  near  by,  sleepily  dropping  down  the 
tide  —  the  little  boat  slack-tow'd  astern, 


275 

The  hurrying  tumbling  waves,  quick-broken  crests, 
slapping, 

The  strata  of  color'd  clouds,  the  long  bar  of  ma- 
roon-tint, away  solitary  by  itself — the  spread 
of  purity  it  lies  motionless  in, 

The  horizon's  edge,  the  flying  sea-crow,  the  fra- 
grance of  salt  marsh  and  shore  mud ; 

These  became  part  of  that  child  who  went  forth 
every  day,  and  who  now  goes,  and  will  always 
go  forth  every  day. 

THE   CLOSING   SCENE 

By  Thomas  Buchanan  Read 

ITHIN  the  sober  realm  of  leaf- 
less trees 
The  russet    year   inhaled   the 

dreamy  air ; 
Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his 

hour  of  ease, 

When  all  the  fields  are  lying 
brown  and  bare. 

The  gray  barns,  looking  from  their  hazy  hills, 
O'er  the  dim  waters,  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All  sights  were  mellowed,  and  all  sounds  subdued, 
The  hills  seemed  farther  and  the  streams  sang  low; 

As  in  a  dream,  the  distant  woodman  hewed 
His  winter  log  with  many  a  muffled  blow. 


The  embattled  forests,  erewhile,  armed  in  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of  old 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 

On  slumberous  wings  the  vulture  tried  his  flight ; 

The  dove  scarce  heard   his   sighing  mate's  com- 
plaint ; 
And  like  a  star,  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church  vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 

The  sentinel  cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew  — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before  — 

Silent  till  some  replying  warden  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where,  erst,  the  jay  within  the  elm's  tall  crest, 
Made    garrulous    trouble    round    her  unfledged 
young ; 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung ; 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 
The  busy  swallows  circling  ever  near, 

Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 
An  early  harvest,  and  a  plenteous  year  ; 

Where  every  bird  that  waked  the  vernal  feast 

Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn, 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east  ;  — 
All  now  was  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 


277 

Alone,  from  out  the  stubble,  piped  the  quail, 

And  croaked   the   crow   through  all   the  dreary 
gloom ; 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage-loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers; 

The   spiders  wove   their   thin  shrouds  night   by 

night ; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by  —  passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this  —  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  Year  stood  there, 
Firing  the  floor  with  its  inverted  torch  ;  — 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The    white-haired    matron,    with    monotonous 

tread, 
Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien, 

Sat  like  a  fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

She  had  known  sorrow.     He  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped,  and  broke  with  her  the  ashen  crust, 

And,  in  the  dead  leaves,  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While   yet   her  cheek   was    bright  with    summer 
bloom, 

Her  country  summoned,  and  she  gave  her  all, 
And  twice,  war  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume  — 

Re-gave  the  swords,  to  rust  upon  the  wall. 


278 

Re-gave  the  swords  —  but  not  the  hand  that  drew, 
And  struck  for  liberty  the  dying  blow  ; 

Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 
Fell  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  hot  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 
Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon  ; 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone, 
Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune. 

At   last   the   thread   was   snapped  —  her  head  was 

bowed  ; 

Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene; 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud, 
While  Death   and   Winter   closed   the  Autumn 
scene. 

THE   LITTLE   BEACH-BIRD 

By  Richard  Henry  Dana 

THOU  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice  ? 
Why  with  that  boding  cry 
O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly? 
O,  rather,  bird,  with  me 

Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a  beating  storm  at  sea  ; 

Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 
As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 

The  doom  of  us.     Thy  wail  — 
What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 


279 

Thou  call'st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad  ;  as  if,  in  strange  accord 

With  the  motion,  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 

One  spirit  did  ye  urge  — 

The  Mystery  —  the  Word. 

Of  thousands  thou  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  ocean,  art  !     A  requiem  o'er  the  dead 

From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A  tale  of  mourning  tells  — 

Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  glory  fled. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 

Thy  spirit  never  more. 
Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore 

For  gladness,  and  the  light 

Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 


SMOKE 

By  Henry  David  ^horeau 

LIGHT-WINGED  Smoke!  Icarianbird, 
Melting  thy  pinions  in  thy  upward  flight ; 
Lark  without  song,  and  messenger  of  dawn, 
Circling  above  the  hamlets  as  thy  nest  ; 
Or  else,  departing  dream,  and  shadowy  form 
Of  midnight  vision,  gathering  up  thy  skirts  ; 
By  night  star-veiling,  and  by  day 


280 


Darkening  the  light  and  blotting  out  the  sun  ; 
Go  thou,  my  incense,  upward  from  this  hearth, 
And  ask  the  gods  to  pardon  this  clear  flame. 

MIST 

By  Henry  David  ^fhoreau 


W-ANCHORED  cloud, 
fewfoundland  air, 
"ountain-head     and     source     of 

rivers, 

Dew-cloth,  dream-drapery, 
And  napkin  spread  by  fays  ; 
Drifting  meadow  of  the  air, 
Where  bloom  the  daisied  banks  and  violets, 
And  in  whose  fenny  labyrinth 
The  bittern  booms  and  heron  wades ; 
Spirit  of  lakes  and  seas  and  rivers,  — 
Bear  only  perfumes  and  the  scent 
Of  healing  herbs  to  just  men's  fields. 

THE   LARK 

By  James  Hogg 

BIRD  of  the  wilderness, 
Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  : 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 


28l 


Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud ; 
Love  gives  it  energy  —  love  gave  it  birth  ! 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing  — 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  —  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day  ; 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away  ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be  ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place  — 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 


PART  OF  IL  PENSEROSO 

By  John  Milton 

SWEET  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 
Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song : 
And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 


282 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way; 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 


PART  OF  L'ALLEGRO 

By  John  Milton 

|O  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 

And     singing    startle    the    dull 
night, 

From    his    watch-tower    in  the 
skies, 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 
While  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  Darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  Morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 


Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 

While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land, 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 

Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures  j 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray, — 

Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest, — 

Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide ; 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 

The  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 


THE   CRICKET 

By  William  Cowper 

LITTLE  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 
Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Whereso'er  be  thine  abode 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 


284 

Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a  song  more  soft  and  sweet  j 
In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a  strain  as  I  can  give. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  expressed, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest ! 
While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 
And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  best ; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire, 
Thou  hast  all  thine  heart's  desire. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee, 
Thou  surpassest,  happier  far, 
Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are ; 
Theirs  is  but  a  summer's  song  — 
Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 
Unimpaired  and  shrill,  and  clear, 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

Neither  night  nor  dawn  of  day 
Puts  a  period  to  thy  play  : 
Sing  then  —  and  extend  thy  span 
Far  beyond  the  date  of  man  j 
Wretched  man,  whose  years  are  spent 
In  repining  discontent, 
Lives  not,  aged  though  he  be, 
Half  a  span,  compared  with  thee. 


TO    SENECA    LAKE 

By  James  Gates  Percival 

thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 
The  wild    swan    spreads   his 

snowy  sail, 
And  round  his  breast  the  ripples 

break, 
As  down  he  bears  before  the 

gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 

The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 
And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 

And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their  foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 
As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 

Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 
And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 

p'loat  round  the  distant  mountain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 

A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 
And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 

Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 


286 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 
O  !   I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar,  - 

When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 
And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er  I 


NIGHT   AND  DEATH 

By  Joseph  Blanco  White 

|YSTERIOUS      Night !      when 

our  first  parent  knew 
Thee,   from  report    divine,   and 

heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely 

Frame, 
This  glorious   canopy   of  Light 

and  Blue  ? 

Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  Flame, 
Hesperus,  with  the  Host  of  Heaven,  came, 
And  lo  !   Creation  widened  on  Man's  view. 
Who  could   have  thought  such  Darkness  lay  con- 
cealed 

Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun  !  or  who  could  find, 
Whilst  flower  and  leaf  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  Orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind  ! 
Why  do  we  then  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife  £ 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life  ? 


THE   DAISY 

By  James  Montgomery 

HERE  is  a  flower,  a  little  flower 
With  silver  crest  and  golden  eye, 
That  welcomes  every  changing 

hour, 
And  weathers  every  sky. 

The  prouder  beauties  of  the  field 
In  gay  but  quick  succession  shine ; 
Race  after  race  their  honors  yield, 
They  flourish  and  decline. 

But  this  small  flower,  to  Nature  dear, 
While  moons  and  stars  their  courses  run, 
Inwreathes  the  circle  of  the  year 
Companion  of  the  sun. 

It  smiles  upon  the  lap  of  May, 
To  sultry  August  spreads  its  charm, 
Lights  pale  October  on  his  way, 
And  twines  December's  arm. 

The  purple  heath  and  golden  broom, 
On  moory  mountains  catch  the  gale  ; 
O'er  lawns  the  lily  sheds  perfume, 
The  violet  in  the  vale. 

But  this  bold  floweret  climbs  the  hill, 
Hides  in  the  forest,  haunts  the  glen, 
Plays  on  the  margin  of  the  rill, 
Peeps  round  the  fox's  den. 


288 

Within  the  garden's  cultured  round 
It  shares  the  sweet  carnation's  bed  ; 
And  blooms  on  consecrated  ground 
In  honor  of  the  dead. 

The  lambkin  crops  its  crimson  gem ; 
The  wild  bee  murmurs  on  its  breast, 
The  blue-fly  bends  its  pensile  stem 
Light  o'er  the  skylark's  nest. 

'Tis  Flora's  page  —  in  every  place, 
In  every  season,  fresh  and  fair ; 
It  opens  with  perennial  grace, 
And  blossoms  everywhere. 

On  waste  and  woodland,  rock  and  plain, 
Its  humble  buds  unheeded  rise ; 
The  rose  has  but  a  summer  reign ; 
The  Daisy  never  dies  ! 

THE   TIGER 

By  William  Blake 

IGER  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night ; 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symme- 
try ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 

On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 

What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 


289 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thine  heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  ?  and  what  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer,  what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He,  Who  made  the  Lamb,  make  thee  ? 

Tiger  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright, 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

TO   THE   CUCKOO 

By  John  Logan 

AIL,  beauteous   stranger  of  the 

grove  ! 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring  ! 
Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 
And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

Soon  as  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear. 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 
Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 


290 

Delightful  visitant  !  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  schoolboy,  wandering  through  the  wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  thy  most  curious  voice  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird  !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  Winter  in  thy  year ! 

Oh,  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee ! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Attendants  on  the  Spring. 


A 


THE   O'LINCOLN   FAMILY 

By  Wilson  Flagg 

FLOCK  of  merry  singing-birds  were  sport- 
ing in  the  grove; 

Some   were   warbling    cheerily,  and    some 
were  making  love : 


291 

There  were  Bobolincon,  Wadolincon,  Winter- 
seeble,  Conquedle,  — 

A  livelier  set  was  never  led  by  tabor,  pipe,  or 
fiddle,  — 

Crying,  "  Phew,  shew,  Wadolincon,  see,  see,  Bobo- 
lincon, 

Down  among  the  tickletops,  hiding  in  the  butter- 
cups ! 

I  know  the  saucy  chap,  I  see  his  shining  cap 

Bobbing  in  the  clover  there  —  see,  see,  see  !  " 

Up  flies  Bobolincon,  perching  on  an  apple-tree, 

Startled  by  his  rival's  song,  quickened  by  his  rail- 
lery, 

Soon  he  spies  the  rogue  afloat,  curveting  in  the 
air, 

And  merrily  he  turns  about,  and  warns  him  to  be- 
ware ! 

u  'Tis  you  that  would  a-wooing  go,  down  among 
the  rushes  O  ! 

But  wait  a  week,  till  flowers  are  cheery, —  wait  a 
week,  and  ere  you  marry 

Be  sure  of  a  house  wherein  to  tarry  ! 

Wadolink,  Whiskodink,  Tom  Denny,  wait,  wait, 
wait  !  " 

Every  one's   a   funny  fellow ;  every   one's   a  little 

mellow ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow,  follow,  o'er  the  hill  and  in 

the  hollow  ! 
Merrily,  merrily,  there  they  hie  ;  now  they  rise  and 

now  they  fly  ; 


292 

They  cross  and  turn,  and  in  and  out,  and  down  in 

the  middle,  and  wheel  about, — 
With  a  "  Phew,  shew,  Wadolincon  !   listen  to  me, 

Bobolincon  !  — 
Happy's   the   wooing  that's   speedily  doing,  that's 

speedily  doing, 
That's    merry    and   over   with  the   bloom   of  the 

clover ! 
Bobolincon,   Wadolincon,    Winterseeble,    follow, 

follow  me  !  " 

THE   WINGED   WORSHIPPERS 

By  Charles  Sprague 

(Addressed    to   two    swallows    that    flew  into  the 
Chauncy  Place  Church  during  divine  service.) 

AY,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of 

heaven  ? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayei  ; 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep. 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 


293 

To  you  't  is  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays, 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing 
Far,  far  above,  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay, 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 

Above  the  crowd 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 

Fd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'Twere  heaven  indeed 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  nature's  own  great  God  adore. 

BIRCH   STREAM 

By  Anna  Boynton  Averill 

AT  noon,  within  the  dusty  town, 
Where  the  wild  river  rushes  down, 
And  thunders  hoarsely  all  day  long, 
I  think  of  thee,  my  hermit  stream, 
Low  singing  in  thy  summer  dream 
Thine  idle,  sweet,  old,  tranquil  song. 


294 

Northward,  Katahdin's  ehasmed  pile 
Looms  through  thy  low,  long,  leafy  aisle, 

Eastward,  Olamon's  summit  shines ; 
And  I  upon  thy  grassy  shore, 
The  dreamful,  happy  child  of  yore, 

Worship  before  mine  olden  shrines. 

Again  the  sultry  noontide  hush 
Is  sweetly  broken  by  the  thrush, 

Whose  clear  bell  rings  and  dies  away 
Beside  thy  banks,  in  coverts  deep, 
Where  nodding  buds  of  orchis  sleep 

In  dusk,  and  dream  not  it  is  day. 

Again  the  wild  cow-lily  floats 
Her  golden-freighted,  tented  boats, 

In  thy  cool  coves  of  softened  gloom, 
O'ershadowed  by  the  whispering  reed, 
And  purple  plumes  of  pickerel-weed, 

And  meadow-sweet  in  tangled  bloom. 

The  startled  minnows  dart  in  flocks 
Beneath  thy  glimmering  amber  rocks, 

If  but  a  zephyr  stirs  the  brake  ; 
The  silent  swallow  swoops,  a  flash 
Of  light,  and  leaves,  with  dainty  plash, 

A  ring  of  ripples  in  her  wake. 

— Without,  the  land  is  hot  and  dim  ; 
The  level  fields  in  languor  swim, 

Their  stubble-grasses  brown  as  dust ; 
And  all  along  the  upland  lanes, 
Where  shadeless  noon  oppressive  reigns, 

Dead  roses  wear  their  crowns  of  rust. 


295 

Within,  is  neither  blight  nor  death, 
The  fierce  sun  wooes  with  ardent  breath, 

But  cannot  win  thy  sylvan  heart. 
Only  the  child  who  loves  thee  long, 
With  faithful  worship  pure  and  strong, 

Can  know  how  dear  and  sweet  thou  art. 

So  loved  I  thee  in  days  gone  by, 

So  love  I  yet,  though  leagues  may  lie 

Between  us,  and  the  years  divide;  — 
A  breath  of  coolness,  dawn,  and  dew, — 
A  joy  forever  fresh  and  true, 

Thy  memory  doth  with  me  abide. 

THE  SONG-SPARROW 

By  George  Parsons  Lathrop 

LIMMERS      gray     the     leafless 

thicket 

Close  beside  my  garden  gate, 
Where,  so    light,   from    post    to 

picket 

Hops  the  sparrow,  blithe,  se- 
date ; 

Who,  with  meekly  folded  wing, 
Comes  to  sun  himself  and  sing. 

It  was  there,  perhaps,  last  year, 

That  his  little  house  he  built ; 
For  he  seems  to  perk  and  peer, 
And  to  twitter,  too,  and  tilt 

The  bare  branches  in  between, 
With  a  fond,  familiar  mien. 


296 

Once,  I  know,  there  was  a  nest, 
Held  there  by  the  sideward  thrust 

Of  those  twigs  that  touch  his  breast ; 

Though  'tis  gone  now.     Some  rude  gust 
.    Caught  it,  over-full  of  snow,  — 
Bent  the  bush,  —  and  stole  it  so. 

Thus  our  highest  holds  are  lost, 
By  the  ruthless  winter's  wind, 
When,  with  swift-dismantling  frost, 
The  green  woods  we  dwelt  in,  thinn'd 
Of  their  leafage,  grow  too  cold, 
For  frail  hopes  of  summer's  mold. 

But  if  we,  with  spring-days  mellow, 

Wake  to  woeful  wrecks  of  change, 
And  the  sparrow's  ritornello 

Scaling  still  its  old  sweet  range  ; 
Can  we  do  a  better  thing 
Than,  with  him,  still  build  and  sing  ? 

Oh,  my  sparrow,  thou  dost  breed 

Thought  in  me  beyond  all  telling; 
Shootest  through  me  sunlight,  seed, 

And  fruitful  blessing,  with  that  welling 
Ripple  of  ecstatic  rest 
Gurgling  ever  from  thy  breast ! 

And  thy  breezy  carol  spurs 

Vital  motion  in  my  blood, 
Such  as  in  the  sap-wood  stirs, 

Swells  and  shapes  the  pointed  bud 
Of  the  lilac  ;  and  besets 
The  hollow  thick  with  violets. 


297 

Yet  I  know  not  any  charm 

That  can  make  the  fleeting  time 
Of  thy  sylvan,  faint  alarm 
Suit  itself  to  human  rhyme  : 

And  my  yearning  rhythmic  word 
Does  thee  grievous  wrong,  blithe  bird. 

So,  however  thou  hast  wrought 

This  wild  joy  on  heart  and  brain, 
It  is  better  left  untaught. 

Take  thou  up  the  song  again : 
There  is  nothing  sad  afloat 
On  the  tide  that  swells  thy  throat  ! 

THE  HERALD  CRANE 

By  Hamlin  Garland 

H  !  say  you  so,  bold  sailor 

In  the  sun-lit  deeps  of  sky  ! 
Dost  thou  so  soon  the  seed-time 

tell 

In  thy  imperial  cry, 
As  circling  in  yon  shoreless  sea 
Thine  unseen  form  goes  drift- 
ing by  ? 

I  can  not  trace  in  the  noon-day  glare 

Thy  regal  flight,  O  crane  ! 
From  the  leaping  might  of  the  fiery  light 

Mine  eyes  recoil  in  pain, 
But  on  mine  ear,  thine  echoing  cry 

Falls  like  a  bugle  strain. 


298 


The  mellow  soil  glows  beneath  my  feet, 

Where  lies  the  buried  grain  ; 
The  warm  light  floods  the  length  and  breadth, 

Of  the  vast,  dim,  shimmering  plain, 
Throbbing  with  heat  and  the  nameless  thrill 

Of  the  birth-time's  restless  pain. 

On  weary  wing,  plebeian  geese 

Push  on  their  arrowy  line 
Straight  into  the  north,  or  snowy  brant 

In  dazzling  sunshine,  gloom  and  shine ; 
But  thou,  O  crane,  save  for  thy  sovereign  cry, 

At  thy  majestic  height 
On  proud,  extended  wings  sweep'st  on 

In  lonely,  easeful  flight. 

Then  cry,  thou  martial-throated  herald  ! 

Cry  to  the  sun,  and  sweep 
And  swing  along  thy  mateless,  tireless  course 

Above  the  clouds  that  sleep 
Afloat  on  lazy  air  —  cry  on  !     Send  down 

Thy  trumpet  note  —  it  seems 
The  voice  of  hope  and  dauntless  will, 

And  breaks  the  spell  of  dreams. 

LINE  UP,  BRAVE  BOYS 

By  Hamlin  Garland 

THE  packs  are  on,  the  cinches  tight, 
The  patient  horses  wait, 
Upon  the  grass  the  frost  lies  white, 
The  dawn  is  gray  and  late. 


299 

The  leader's  cry  rings  sharp  and  clear, 

The  campfires  smoulder  low  ; 

Before  us  lies  a  shallow  mere, 

Beyond,  the  mountain  snow. 

u  Line  up,  Billy,  line  up,  boys, 
The  east  is  gray  with  coming  day, 
We  must  away,  we  cannot  stay. 
Hy-o,  hy-ak,  brave  boys  !  " 

Five  hundred  miles  behind  us  lie, 

As  many  more  ahead, 

Through  mud  and  mire  on  mountains  high 

Our  weary  feet  must  tread. 

So  one  by  one,  with  loyal  mind, 

The  horses  swing  to  place, 

The  strong  in  lead,  the  weak  behind, 

In  patient  plodding  grace. 

"  Hy-o,  Buckskin,  brave  boy,  Joe  ! 

The  sun  is  high, 

The  hid  loons  cry  : 

Hy-ak  —  away  !     Hy-o  !  " 

THE  WHISTLING  MARMOT 

By  Hamlin  Garland 

ON  mountains  cold  and  bold  and  high, 
Where  only  golden  eagles  fly, 
He  builds  his  home  against  the  sky. 

Above  the  clouds  he  sits  and  whines, 
The  morning  sun  about  him  shines ; 
Rivers  loop  below  in  shining  lines. 


300 


No  wolf  or  cat  may  find  him  there, 
That  winged  corsair  of  the  air, 
The  eagle,  is  his  only  care. 

He  sees  the  pink  snows  slide  away, 

He  sees  his  little  ones  at  play, 

And  peace  fills  out  each  summer  day. 

In  winter,  safe  within  his  nest, 
He  eats  his  winter  store  with  zest, 
And  takes  his  young  ones  to  his  breast. 

THE  TOIL  OF  THE  TRAIL 


By  Hamlm  Garland 

HAT  have  I  gained  by  the  toil  of 

the  trail  ? 

I  know  and  know  well. 
I  have  found  once  again  the  lore 

I  had  lost 
In  the  loud  city's  hell. 


I  have  broadened  my  hand  to  the  cinch  and  the  axe, 

I  have  laid  my  flesh  to  the  rain  ; 

I  was  hunter  and  trailer  and  guide  ; 

I  have  touched  the  most  primitive  wildness  again. 

I  have  threaded  the  wild  with  the  stealth  of  the  deer, 

No  eagle  is  freer  than  I  ; 

No  mountain  can  thwart  me,  no  torrent  appall, 

I  defy  the  stern  sky. 

So  long  as  I  live  these  joys  will  remain, 

I  have  touched  the  most  primitive  wildness  again. 


PEACE 

By  Charles  De  Kay 

|EEN  gleams  the  wind,  and  all  the 

ground 
Is  bare  and  chapped  with  bitter 

cold. 
The  ruts  are  iron  ;  fish  are  found 

Encased  in  ice  as  in  a  mold; 
The  frozen  hilltops  ache  with  pain 
And  shudders  tremble  down  each  shy 
Deep  rootlet  burrowing  in  the  plain  ;  — 
Now  mark  the  sky. 

Softly  she  pulls  a  downy  veil 

Before  her  clear  Medusa  face  ; 
This,  falling  slow,  abroad  doth  trail 

Across  the  wold  a  feathery  trace, 
Whereunder  soon  the  moaning  earth 

Aslumber  stretches  dreamily, 
Forgot  both  pain  and  summer's  mirth, 
Soothed  by  the  sky. 

APRIL 

By  Samuel  Longfellow 

AGAIN  has  come  the  Spring-time, 
With  the  crocus's  golden  bloom, 
With  the  smell  of  the  fresh-turned  earth- 
mould, 
And  the  violet's  perfume. 


302 

O  gardener !   tell  me  the  secret 

Of  thy  flowers  so  rare  and  sweet !  — 

—  "I  have  only  enriched  my  garden 
With  the  black  mire  from  the  street." 


NOVEMBER 

By  Samuel  Longfellow 

HE  dead  leaves  their  rich  mosaics, 
Of  olive  and  gold  and  brown, 
Had  laid  on  the  rain-wet  pave- 
ments, 

Through  all   the   embowered 
town. 

They  were  washed  by  the    au- 
tumn tempest, 
They  were  trod  by  hurrying  feet, 

And  the  maids  came  out  with  their  besoms, 
And  swept  them  into  the  street, 

To  be  crushed  and  lost  forever 

'Neath  the  wheels,  in  the  black  mire  lost,  — 
The  Summer's  precious  darlings, 

She  nurtured  at  such  cost  ! 

O  words  that  have  fallen  from  me  ! 

O  golden  thoughts  and  true  ! 
Must  I  see  in  the  leaves  a  symbol 

Of  the  fate  which  awaiteth  you  ? 


3°3 

THE  CRICKETS 

By  Harriet  McEwen  Kimball 

IPE,  little  minstrels  of  the  waning 

year, 

In  gentle  concert  pipe  ! 
Pipe  the  warm  noons  ;    the  mel- 
low harvest  near ; 
The  apples  dropping  ripe  ; 

The  tempered  sunshine  and  the 
softened  shade ; 


The  trill  of  lonely  bird  ; 

The  sweet  sad  hush  on  Nature's  gladness  laid ; 
The  sounds  through  silence  heard  ! 

Pipe  tenderly  the  passing  of  the  year  ; 

The  Summer's  brief  reprieve  ; 
The  dry  husk  rustling  round  the  yellow  ear ; 

The  chill  of  morn  and  eve  ! 

Pipe  the  untroubled  trouble  of  the  year ; 

Pipe  low  the  painless  pain  ; 
Pipe  your  unceasing  melancholy  cheer  •, 

The  year  is  in  the  wane. 

COME  FOR  ARBUTUS 

By  Mrs.  Sara  L.  Oberholtzer 


OME  for  arbutus,  my  dear,  my  dear: 

*       V 


CThe  pink  waxen  blossoms  are  waking,!  hear; 
We'll  gather  an  armful  of  fragrant  wild  cheer. 
Come  for  arbutus,  my  dear,  my  dear, 
Come  for  arbutus,  my  dear. 


3°4 

Come  for  arbutus,  my  dear,  my  dear  ; 

Come   through   the    gray    meadow,   and    pass    the 

black  weir, 
To   brown-margined    forest,  and    part    the  leaves 

sere. 

Come  for  arbutus,  my  dear,  my  dear, 
Come  for  arbutus,  my  dear. 

Come  for  arbutus,  my  dear,  my  dear  ; 
We'll  gather  the  first  virgin  bloom  of  the  year, 
The  blush  of  spring  kisses  with  coral  lips  near. 
Come  for  arbutus,  my  dear,  my  dear, 
Come  for  arbutus,  my  dear. 

THE  DANDELIONS 

By  Helen  Gray  Cone 

| PON  a  showery  night  and  still, 

Without  a  sound  of  warning, 
A    trooper   band   surprised    the 

hill, 

And  held  it  in  the  morning. 
We  were  not  waked  by  bugle- 
notes, 

No  cheer  our  dreams  invaded, 
And  yet,  at  dawn,  their  yellow  coats 
On  the  green  slopes  paraded. 

We  careless  folk  the  deed  forgot ; 

Till  one  day,  idly  walking, 
We  marked  upon  the  self-same  spot 

A  crowd  of  veterans  talking. 


3~5 

They  shook  their  trembling  heads  and  gray 
With  pride  and  noiseless  laughter ; 

When,  well-a-day  !   they  blew  away, 
And  ne'er  were  heard  of  after  ! 


HYMN  TO  DARKNESS 

By  J.  Norn's 

AIL  thou   most  sacred  venerable 

thing ! 
What  Muse  is  worthy  thee  to 

sing  ? 

Thee,  from  whose  pregnant  uni- 
versal womb 
All  things,  even   Light  thy  rival, 

first  did  come. 
What  dares  he  not  attempt  that  sings  of  thee 

Thou  first  and  greatest  mystery  ? 
Who  can  the  secrets  of  thy  essence  tell  ? 
Thou  like  the  light  of  God  art  inaccessible. 

Before  great  Love  this  monument  did  raise, 

This  ample  theatre  of  praise. 
Before  the  folding  circles  of  the  sky 
Were  tun'd  by  Him  who  is  all  harmony. 
Before  the  morning  stars  their  hymn  began, 

Before  the  councel  held  for  man. 
Before  the  birth  of  either  Time  or  Place, 
Thou  reign'st  unquestioned  monarch  in  the  empty 
space. 


306 

Thy  native  lot  thou  didst  to  Light  resign, 

But  still  half  of  the  globe  is  thine. 
Here  with  a  quiet,  and  yet  aweful  hand, 
Like  the  best  emperours  thou  dost  command. 
To  thee  the  stars  above  their  brightness  owe, 

And  mortals  their  repose  below. 
To  thy  protection  Fear  and  Sorrow  flee, 
And  those  that  weary  are  of  light,  find  rest  in  thee. 

Tho'  light  and  glory  be  th*  Almighty's  throne, 

Darkness  is  His  pavilion. 
From  that  His  radiant  beauty,  but  from  thee 
He  has  His  terror  and  His  majesty. 
Thus  when  He  first  proclaim'd  His  sacred  Law, 

And  would  His  rebel  subjects  awe, 
Like  princes  on  some  great  solemnity, 
H'  appear'd  in's  robes  of  State,  and  clad  Himself 

with  thee. 
The  blest  above  do  thy  sweet  umbrage*   prize, 

When  cloy'd  with  light,  they  veil  their  eyes. 
The  vision  of  the  Deity  is  made 
More  sweet  and  beatifick  by  thy  shade. 
But  we  poor  tenants  of  this  orb  below 

Don't  here  thy  excellencies  know, 
Till  Death  our  understandings  does  improve, 
And  then  our  wiser  ghosts  thy  silent  night-walks  love. 

But  thee  I  now  admire,  thee  would  I  chuse 

For  my  religion,  or  my  Muse. 
'Tis  hard  to  tell  whether  thy  reverend  shade 
Has  more  good  votaries  or  poets  made, 

*  Shadow. 


3°7 

From  thy  dark  caves  were  inspirations  given, 

And  from  thick  groves  went  vows  to  Heaven. 
Hail  then  thou  Muse's  and  Devotion's  spring, 
'Tis  just  we  should  adore,  'tis  just  we  should  thee 
sing. 

THE  OVEN-BIRD 

By  Frank  Bolles 

N  the  hollows  of  the  mountains, 
In    the     valleys    spreading    from 

them, 
Stand    the    rustling   broad-leaved 

forests, 
Trees  whose  leaves   are  shed  in 

autumn. 

Underneath  them  lie  the  leaf  beds, 
Resting  one  upon  another, 
Laid  there  yearly  by  the  storm  winds ; 
Pressed  and  smoothed  by  winter  snow-drifts. 

In  the  days  of  spring  migrations, 

Days  when  warbler  hosts  move  northward, 

To  the  forests,  to  the  leaf  beds, 

Comes  the  tiny  oven  builder. 

Daintily  the  leaves  he  tiptoes  ; 

Underneath  them  builds  his  oven, 

Arched  and  framed  with  last  year's  oak  leaves, 

Roofed  and  walled  against  the  raindrops. 


3o8 

Hour  by  hour  his  voice  he  raises, 
Mingling  with  the  red-eye's  snatches, 
Answering  to  the  hermit's  anthem ; 
Rising  —  falling,  like  a  wind  breath. 

Strange,  ventriloquous  his  music, 
Far  away  when  close  beside  one  ; 
Near  at  hand  when  seeming  distant ; 
Weird  —  his  plaintive  accrescendo. 

Teach  us  !   teach  us !  is  his  asking, 
Uttered  to  the  Omnipresent : 
Teach  us  !   teach  us !  comes  responsive 
From  the  solemn  listening  forest. 

When  the  whip-poor-will  is  clucking, 
When  the  bats  unfurl  their  canvas, 
When  dim  twilight  rules  the  forest, 
Soaring  towards  the  high  star's  radiance 
Far  above  the  highest  treetop, 
Singing  goes  this  sweet  Accentor. 

Noontide  never  sees  this  soaring, 
Midday  never  hears  this  music, 
Only  at  the  hour  of  slumber, 
Only  once,  as  day  is  dying, 
When  the  perils  and  the  sorrows, 
When  the  blessings  and  the  raptures, 
One  and  all  have  joined  the  finished, 
Does  this  sweet-toned  forest  singer 
Urge  his  wings  towards  endless  ether, 
Hover  high  a  single  moment 
Pouring  out  his  spirit's  gladness 
Toward  the  Source  of  life  and  being. 


3°9 


THE   SNOW-FILLED   NEST 

By  Rose  ^ferry  Cooke 

|T  swings  upon  the  leafless  tree, 
By   stormy  winds   blown  to  and 

fro; 

Deserted,  lonely,  sad  to  see. 
And  full  of  cruel  snow. 

In     summer's     noon    the    leaves 

above 

Made  dewy  shelter  from  the  heat; 
The  nest  was  full  of  life  and  love  ;  — 
Ah,  life  and  love  are  sweet  ! 

The  tender  brooding  of  the  day, 
The  silent,  peaceful  dreams  of  night, 
The  joys  that  patience  overpay, 
The  cry  of  young  delight, 

The  song  that  through  the  branches  rings, 
The  nestling  crowd  with  eager  eyes, 
The  flutter  soft  of  untried  wings, 
The  flight  of  glad  surprise  :  — 

All,  all  are  gone  !  I  know  not  where  ; 
And  still  upon  the  cold  gray  tree, 
Lonely,  and  tossed  by  every  air, 
That  snow-filled  nest  I  see. 

I,  too,  had  once  a  place  of  rest, 
Where  life,  and  love,  and  peace  were  mine  — 
Even  as  the  wild-birds  byjld  their  nest, 
When  skies  and  summer  shine. 


3io 

But  winter  came,  the  leaves  were  dead ; 
The  mother-bird  was  first  to  go, 
The  nestlings  from  my  sight  have  fled  j 
The  nest  is  full  of  snow. 


THE  WISTFUL  DAYS 

By  Robert  Underwood  Johnson 


HAT  is  there  wanting  in  the 
Spring  ? 

Soft  is  the  air  as  yester- 
year; 

The    happy-nested    green     is 

>  \1V   /  TV  here, 

And  half  the  world    is  on   the 


wing. 

The  morning  beckons,  and  like  balm 

Are  westward  waters  blue  and  calm. 

Yet  something's  wanting  in  the  Spring. 

What  is  it  wanting  in  the  Spring  ? 
O  April,  lover  to  us  all, 
What  is  so  poignant  in  thy  thrall 

When  children's  merry  voices  ring  ? 
What  haunts  us  in  the  cooing  dove 
More  subtle  than  the  speech  of  Love, 

What  nameless  lack  or  loss  of  Spring  ? 

Let  Youth  go  dally  with  the  Spring, 
Call  her  the  dear,  the  fair,  the  young ; 
And  all  her  graces  ever  sung 


311 

Let  him,  once  more  rehearsing,  sing. 
They  know,  who  keep  a  broken  tryst, 
Till  something  from  the  Spring  be  missed 

We  have  not  truly  known  the  Spring. 

TO    THE    HOUSATONIC    AT 
STOCKBRIDGE 

By  Robert  Underwood  Johnson 

NTENTED    river!     in   thy 

dreamy  realm  — 
The     cloudy     willow     and     the 

plumy  elm  : 
They  call  thee  English,  thinking 

thus  to  mate 
Their  musing   streams   that,   oft 

with  pause  sedate, 

Linger  through  misty  meadows  for  a  glance 
At  haunted  tower  or  turret  of  romance. 
Beware  their  praise  who  rashly  would  deny 
To  our  New  World  its  true  tranquillity. 
Our  "  New  World  "  ?    Nay,  say  rather  to  our  Old 
(Let  truth  and  freedom  make  us  doubly  bold) ; 
Tell  them  :  A  thousand  silent  years  before 
Their  sea-born  isle  —  at  every  virgin  shore 
Dripping  like  Aphrodite's  tresses  —  rose, 
Here,  'neath  her  purple  veil,  deep  slept  Repose, 
To  be  awakened  but  by  wail  of  war. 
About  thy  cradle  under  yonder  hill, 
Before  thou  knewest  bridge,  or  dam,  or  mill, 
Soft  winds  of  starlight  whispered  heavenly  lore, 


312 

Which,  like  our  childhood's,  all  the  workday  toil 
Cannot  efface,  nor  long  its  beauty  soil. 
Thou  hast  grown  human  laboring  with  men 
At  wheel  and  spindle ;  sorrow  thou  dost  ken  ; 
Yet  dost  thou  still  the  unshaken  stars  behold, 
Calm  to  their  calm  returning,  as  of  old. 
Thus,  like  a  gentle  nature  that  grows  strong 
In  meditation  for  the  strife  with  wrong, 
Thou  show'st  the  peace  that  only  tumult  can ; 
Surely,  serener  river  never  ran. 

Thou  beautiful !     From  every  dreamy  hill 
What  eye  but  wanders  with  thee  at  thy  will, 
Imagining  thy  silver  course  unseen 
Convoyed  by  two  attendant  streams  of  green 
In  bending  lines,  —  like  half-expected  swerves 
Of  swaying  music,  or  those  perfect  curves 
We  call  the  robin  ;  making  harmony 
With  many  a  new-found  treasure  of  the  eye  : 
With  meadows,  marging  smoothly  rounded  hills 
Where  Nature  teemingly  the  myth  fulfils 
Of  many-breasted  Plenty  ;  with  the  blue, 
That  to  the  zenith  fades  through  triple  hue, 
Pledge  of  the  constant  day  ;  with  clouds  of  white, 
That  haunt  horizons  with  their  blooms  of  light, 
And  when  the  east  with  rosy  eve  is  glowing 
Seem  like  full  cheeks  of  zephyrs  gently  blowing. 

Contented  river  !  and  yet  over-shy 

To  mask  thy  beauty  from  the  eager  eye ; 

Hast  thou  a  thought  to  hide  from  field  and  town  ? 

In  some  deep  current  of  the  sunlit  brown 


Art  them  disquieted  —  still  uncontent 

With  praise  from  thy  Homeric  bard,  who  lent 

The  world  the  placidness  thou  gavest  him  ? 

Thee  Bryant  loved  when  life  was  at  its  brim ; 

And  when  the  wine  was  falling,  in  thy  wood 

Of  sturdy  willows  like  a  Druid  stood. 

Oh,  for  his  touch  on  this  o'er-throbbing  time, 

His  hand  upon  the  hectic  brow  of  Rhyme, 

Cooling  its  fevered  passion  to  a  pace 

To  lead,  to  stir,  to  re-inspire  the  race  ! 

Ah  !  there's  a  restive  ripple,  and  the  swift 
Red  leaves  —  September's  firstlings  —  faster  drift ; 
Betwixt  twin  aisles  of  prayer  they  seem  to  pass 
(One  green,  one  greenly  mirrored  in  thy  glass). 
Wouldst  thou  away,  dear  stream  ?     Come,  whisper 

near ! 

1  also  of  much  resting  have  a  fear : 
Let  me  to-morrow  thy  companion  be 
By  fall  and  shallow  to  the  adventurous  sea  ! 


LITTLE   BROTHERS   OF   THE 
GROUND 

By  Edwin  Markham 

LITTLE  ants  in  leafy  wood, 
Bound  by  gentle  Brotherhood, 
While  ye  gaily  gather  spoil, 
Men  are  ground  by  the  wheel  of  toil ; 


3H 

While  ye  follow  Blessed  Fates, 
Men  are  shriveled  up  with  hates; 
Or  they  lie  with  sheeted  Lust, 
And  they  eat  the  bitter  dust. 

Ye  are  fraters  in  your  hall, 

Gay  and  chainless,  great  and  small ; 

All  are  toilers  in  the  field, 

All  are  sharers  in  the  yield. 

But  we  mortals  plot  and  plan 

How  to  grind  the  fellow-man ; 

Glad  to  find  him  in  a  pit, 

If  we  get  some  gain  of  it. 

So  with  us,  the  sons  of  Time, 

Labor  is  a  kind  of  crime, 

For  the  toilers  have  the  least, 

While  the  idlers  lord  the  feast. 

Yes,  our  workers  they  are  bound, 

Pallid  captives  to  the  ground ; 

Jeered  by  traitors,  fooled  by  knaves, 

Till  they  stumble  into  graves. 

How  appears  to  tiny  eyes 
All  this  wisdom  of  the  wise  ? 


THE  FLYING   MIST 

By  Edwin  Markham 

I  WATCH  afar  the  moving  Mystery, 
The  wool-shod,  formless  terror  of  the  sea  — 
The  Mystery  whose  lightest  touch  can  change 
The  world  God  made  to  phantasy,  death-strange. 


Under  its  spell  all  things  grow  old  and  gray 
As  they  will  be  beyond  the  Judgment  Day. 
All  voices,  at  the  lifting  of  some  hand, 
Seem  calling  to  us  from  another  land. 
Is  it  the  still  Power  of  the  Sepulchre 
That  makes  all  things  the  wraiths  of  things  that 
were  ? 

It  touches,  one  by  one,  the  wayside  posts, 
And  they  are  gone,  a  line  of  hurrying  ghosts. 
It  creeps  upon  the  towns  with  stealthy  feet, 
And  men  are  phantoms  on  a  phantom  street. 
It  strikes  the  towers  and  they  are  shafts  of  air, 
Above  the  spectres  passing  in  the  square. 
The  city  turns  to  ashes,  spire  by  spire ; 
The  mountains  perish  with  their  peaks  afire. 
The  fading  city  and  the  falling  sky 
Are  swallowed  in  one  doom  without  a  cry. 

It  tracks  the  traveller  fleeing  with  the  gale, 
Fleeing  toward  home  and  friends  without  avail ; 
It  springs  upon  him  and  he  is  a  ghost, 
A  blurred  shape  moving  on  a  soundless  coast. 
God  !  it  pursues  my  love  along  the  stream, 
Swirls  round  her  and  she  is  forever  dream. 
What  Hate  has  touched  the  universe  with  eld, 
And  left  me  only  in  a  world  dispelled  ? 


3i6 


A   STRIP   OF  BLUE 

By  Lucy  Larcom 

DO  not  own   an  inch  of  land, 

But  all  I  see  is  mine,  — 
The   orchard  and  the   mowing- 
fields, 

The  lawns  and  gardens  fine. 
The     winds     my    tax-collectors 

are, 

They  bring  me  tithes  divine, — 
Wild  scents  and  subtle  essences, 

A  tribute  rare  and  free ; 
And,  more  magnificent  than  all, 

My  window  keeps  for  me 
A  glimpse  of  blue  immensity,  — 
A  little  strip  of  sea. 

Richer  am  I  than  he  who  owns 

Great  fleets  and  argosies  •, 
I  have  a  share  in  every  ship 

Won  by  the  inland  breeze 
To  loiter  on  yon  airy  road 

Above  the  apple-trees. 
I  freight  them  with  my  untold  dreams ; 

Each  bears  my  own  picked  crew  ; 
And  nobler  cargoes  wait  for  them 

Than  ever  India  knew, — 
My  ships  that  sail  into  the  East 

Across  that  outlet  blue. 


3*7 

Sometimes  they  seem  like  living  shapes, 

The  people  of  the  sky,  — 
Guests  in  white  raiment  coming  down 

From  Heaven,  which  is  close  by ; 
I  call  them  by  familiar  names, 

As  one  by  one  draws  nigh, 
So  white,  so  light,  so  spirit-like, 

From  violet  mists  they  bloom  ! 
The  aching  wastes  of  the  unknown 

Are  half  reclaimed  from  gloom, 
Since  on  life's  hospitable  sea 

All  souls  find  sailing-room. 

The  ocean  grows  a  weariness 

With  nothing  else  in  sight ; 
Its  east  and  west,  its  north  and  south, 

Spread  out  from  morn  till  night ; 
We  miss  the  warm,  caressing  shore, 

Its  brooding  shade  and  light. 
A  part  is  greater  than  the  whole ; 

By  hints  are  mysteries  told. 
The  fringes  of  eternity,  — 

God's  sweeping  garment-fold, 
In  that  bright  shred  of  glittering  sea, 

I  reach  out  for,  and  hold. 

The  sails,  like  flakes  of  roseate  pearl, 

Float  in  upon  the  mist ; 
The  waves  are  broken  precious  stones,  - 

Sapphire  and  amethyst, 
Washed  from  celestial  basement  walls 

By  suns  unsetting  kissed. 


Out  through  the  utmost  gates  of  space, 
Past  where  the  gray  stars  drift, 

To  the  widening  Infinite,  my  soul 
Glides  on,  a  vessel  swift ; 

Yet  loses  not  her  anchorage 
In  yonder  azure  rift. 

Here  sit  I,  as  a  little  child  : 

The  threshold  of  God's  door 
Is  that  clear  band  of  chrysoprase  ; 

Now  the  vast  temple  floor, 
The  blinding  glory  of  the  dome 

I  bow  my  head  before  : 
Thy  universe,  O  God,  is  home, 

In  height  or  depth,  to  me ; 
Yet  here  upon  thy  footstool  green 

Content  am  I  to  be ; 
Glad,  when  is  opened  unto  my  need 

Some  sea-like  glimpse  of  thee. 

ALBATROSS 

Charles  Warren  Stoddard 

|IME  cannot  age   thy  sinews,  nor 

the  gale 

Batter  the  network  of  thy  feath- 
ered mail, 

Lone  sentry  of  the  deep  ! 
Among  the  crashing  caverns  of 

the  storm, 

With  wing  unfettered,  lo !  thy  frigid  form 
Is  whirled  in  dreamless  sleep ! 


3'9 

Where  shall  thy  wing  find  rest  for  all  its  might  ? 
Where  shall  thy  lidless  eye,  that  scours  the  night, 

Grow  blank  in  utter  death  ? 
When  shall  thy  thousand  years  have  stripped  thee 

bare, 
Invulnerable  spirit  of  the  air, 

And  sealed  thy  giant-breath  ? 

Not  till  thy  bosom  hugs  the  icy  wave,  — 
Not  till  thy  palsied  limbs  sink  in  that  grave, 

Caught  by  the  shrieking  blast, 
And  hurled  upon  the  sea  with  broad  wings  locked, 
On  an  eternity  of  waters  rocked, 

Defiant  to  the  last ! 


TO   THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

By  Richard  Henry  Wilde 


INGED    mimic   of   the  woods ! 

thou  motley  fool ! 
Who    shall  thy    gay   buffoonery 

describe  ? 

Thine   ever-ready  notes   of  ridi- 
cule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest 
and  gibe. 


Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy  tribe, 
Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school, 
To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe, 
Arch-mocker  and  mad  Abbot  of  Misrule  ! 


32° 

For  such  thou  art  by  day,  —  but  all  night  long 
Thou  pourest  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 
As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 
Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques  complain, 
Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong, 
And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 


A  CHRYSALIS 

By  Mary  Emily  Bradley 

lY  little  Madchen  found  one  day 
A  curious  something  in  her  play, 
That  was  not  fruit,  nor  flower, 

nor  seed  ; 

It  was  not  anything  that  grew, 
Or  crept,  or  climbed,  or  swam, 

or  flew ; 

neither  legs  nor  wings,  indeed  ; 
And  yet  she  was  not  sure,  she  said,  N 
Whether  it  was  alive  or  dead. 

She  brought  it  in  her  tiny  hand 
To  see  if  I  would  understand, 
And  wondered  when  I  made  reply, 
"  You've  found  a  baby  butterfly." 
"  A  butterfly  is  not  like  this," 
With  doubtful  look  she  answered  me. 
So  then  I  told  her  what  would  be 
Some  day  within  the  chrysalis ; 
How,  slowly,  in  the  dull  brown  thing 
Now  still  as  death,  a  spotted  wing, 


32I 

And  then  another,  would  unfold, 
Till  from  the  empty  shell  would  fly 
A  pretty  creature,  by  and  by, 
All  radiant  in  blue  and  gold. 

"  And  will  it,  truly  ?  "  questioned  she  — 
Her  laughing  lips  and  eager  eyes 
All  in  a  sparkle  of  surprise  — 
"  And  shall  your  little  Madchen  see  ?  " 
«  She  shall  !  "  I  said.     How  could  I  tell 
That  ere  the  worm  within  its  shell 
Its  gauzy,  splendid  wings  had  spread, 
My  little  Madchen  would  be  dead  ? 

To-day  the  butterfly  has  flown, — 
She  was  not  here  to  see  it  fly, — 
And  sorrowing  I  wonder  why 
The  empty  shell  is  mine  alone. 
Perhaps  the  secret  lies  in  this  : 
I  too  had  found  a  chrysalis, 
And  Death  that  robbed  me  of  delight 
Was  but  the  radiant  creature's  flight  { 

THE   VOICE   OF  THE  GRASS 

By  Sarah  Roberts  Boyle 

HERE  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere ; 
By  the  dusty  road-side, 
On  the  sunny  hill-side, 
Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 
In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 


322 

Here  I  come  creeping,  smiling  everywhere ; 

All  around  the  open  door, 

Where  sit  the  aged  poor ; 

Here  where  the  children  play, 

In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  j 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart 

Toiling  his  busy  part  — 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere ; 

You  cannot  see  me  coming, 

Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming ; 

For  in  the  starry  night, 

And  the  glad  morning  light, 
I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere ; 

More  welcome  than  the  flowers 

In  Summer's  pleasant  hours  : 

The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 

And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 
To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere : 
When  you're  numbered  with  the  dead 
In  your  still  and  narrow  bed, 
In  the  happy  spring  I'll  come 
And  deck  your  silent  home  — 

Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 


Here  I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  j 

My  humble  song  of  praise 

Most  joyfully  I  raise 

To  Him  at  whose  command 

I  beautify  the  land, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

THE   LONELY-BIRD 

In  the  Adirondacks 

By  Harrison  Smith  Morris 

DAPPLED    throat    of    white! 

Shy,  hidden  bird  ! 
Perched  in   green   dimness  of 

the  dewy  wood, 
And  murmuring,  in  that  lonely, 

lover  mood, 

Thy  heart-ache,  softly  heard, 
Sweetened  by  distance,  over  land  and  lake. 

Why,  like  a  kinsman,  do  I  feel  thy  voice 
Awaken  voices  in  me  free  and  sweet  ? 
Was  there  some  far  ancestral  birdhood  fleet 
That  rose  and  would  rejoice : 

A  broken  cycle  rounded  in  a  song  ? 

The  lake,  like  steady  wine  in  a  deep  cup, 
Lay  crystal  in  the  curving  mountain  deeps ; 
And  now  the  air  brought  that  long  lyric  up 
That  sobs,  then  falls  and  weeps, 

And  hushes  silence  into  listening  hope. 


324 


Is  it  that  we  were  sprung  of  one  old  kin, 
Children  of  brooding  earth,  that  lets  us  tell, 
Thou  from  thy  rhythmic  throat,  I  deep  within, 
These  syllables  of  her  spell, 

This  hymned  wisdom  of  her  pondering  years  ? 

For  thou  hast  spoken  song-wise  in  a  tongue 
I  knew  not  till  I  heard  the  buried  air 
Burst  from  the  boughs  and  bring  me  what  thou 

sung, 

Here  where  the  lake  lies  bare 
To  reaching  summits  and  the  azure  sky. 

Thy  music  is  a  language  of  the  trees, 

The  brown  soil,  and  the  never-trodden  brake  j 
Translatress  art  thou  of  dumb  mysteries 
That  dream  through  wood  and  lake ; 

And  I,  in  thee,  have  uttered  what  I  am  ! 

TO   A   CATY-DID 

By  Philip  Freneau 


IN  a  branch  of  willow  hid 
Sings  the  evening  Caty-did  : 
From  the  lofty  locust  bough 
Feeding  on  a  drop  of  dew, 
In  her  suit  of  green  arrayed 
Hear  her  singing  in  the  shade  — 
Caty-did,  Caty-did,  Caty-did  ! 

While  upon  a  leaf  you  tread, 
Or  repose  your  little  head 
On  your  sheet  of  shadows  laid, 
All  the  day  you  nothing  said : 


3^5 

Half  the  night  your  cheery  tongue 
Revelled  out  its  little  song, — 
Nothing  else  but  Caty-did. 

From  your  lodging  on  the  leaf 
Did  you  utter  joy  or  grief  ? 
Did  you  only  mean  to  say, 
/  have  bad  my  summer's  day, 
And  am  passing,  soon,  away 
To  the  grave  of  Caty-did ; 

Poor,  unhappy  Caty-did  ! 

But  you  would  have  uttered  more 
Had  you  known  of  Nature's  power ; 
From  the  world  when  you  retreat, 
And  a  leafs  your  winding  sheet, 
Long  before  your  spirit  fled, 
Who  can  tell  but  Nature  said, — 
Live  again,  my  Caty-did  ! 

Live,  and  chatter  Caty-did. 

Tell  me,  what  did  Caty  do  ? 
Did  she  mean  to  trouble  you  ? 
Why  was  Caty  not  forbid 
To  trouble  little  Caty-did  ? 
Wrong,  indeed,  at  you  to  fling, 
Hurting  no  one  while  you  sing, — 

Caty-did  !   Caty-did  !   Caty-did  ! 

Why  continue  to  complain  ? 
Caty  tells  me  she  again 
Will  not  give  you  plague  or  pain ; 


Caty  says  you  may  be  hid, 
Caty  will  not  go  to  bed 
While  you  sing  us  Caty-did,  — 
Caty-did  !   Caty-did  !   Caty-did  ! 

But,  while  singing,  you  forgot, 
To  tell  us  what  did  Caty  not : 
Caty  did  not  think  of  cold, 
Flocks  retiring  to  the  fold, 
Winter  with  his  wrinkles  old; 
Winter,  that  yourself  foretold 

When  you  gave  us  Caty-did. 

Stay  serenely  on  your  nest ; 
Caty  now  will  do  her  best, 
All  she  can,  to  make  you  blest ; 
But  you  want  no  human  aid, — 
Nature,  when  she  formed  you,  said, 

"  Independent  you  are  made, 
My  dear  little  Caty-did  : 
Soon  yourself  must  disappear 
With  the  verdure  of  the  year," 
And  to  go,  we  know  not  where, 

With  your  song  of  Caty-did. 

ELUSIVE   NATURE 

By  Henry  ^imrod 

AT  last,  beloved  Nature !   I  have  met 
Thee  face  to  face  upon  thy  breezy  hills, 
And  boldly,  where  thy  inmost  bowers  are  set, 
Gazed  on  thee  naked  in  thy  mountain  rills. 


327 


When  first  I  felt  thy  breath  upon  my  brow, 
Tears  of  strange  ecstasy  gushed  out  like  rain, 
And  with  a  longing,  passionate  as  vain, 
I  strove  to  clasp  thee.      But,  I  know  not  how, 
Always  before  me  didst  thou  seem  to  glide ; 
And  often  from  one  sunny  mountain-side, 
Upon  the  next  bright  peak  I  saw  thee  kneel, 
And  heard  thy  voice  upon  the  billowy  blast ; 
But,  climbing,  only  reached  that  shrine  to  feel 
The  shadow  of  a  Presence  which  had  passed. 


THE   HERMIT   THRUSH 

By  Mrs.  Nelly  Hart  Wood-worth 

WHO  rings  New  England's  Angelus  ? 
A  little  bird  so  plainly  dressed 
With  robe  of  brown  and  spotted  vest 
He  rings  New  England's  Angelus. 

MIDSUMMER   INVITATION 

By  Myron  B.  Benton 

O  PALLID  student !  leave  thy  dim  alcove 
And  stretch  one  restful  summer  after- 
noon, 
Thoughtless   amidst    the    thoughtless   things   of 

June, 
Beneath  these  boughs  with  light  and  murmur  wove. 


328 

Drop  book  and  pen,  a  thrall  released  rove  j 
The  Sisyphean  task  flung  oft,  impugn 
The  withered  Sphynx  —  with  earth's  fresh  heart 
attune. 

Thou,  man,  the  origin  of  evil  prove  ! 

O  leave  that  dark  coil  where  the  spider  delves 
To  trap  the  unwary  reasoner  in  his  lair, 

And  weave  oblivon's  veils  round  learned  shelves  ; 

Wist  to  the  beat  of  Ariel's  happy  wings, 
And  cool  thy  brain  in  this  balm  laden  air ; 

Here  brooding  peace  shall  still  thy  questionings. 


"  THERE  IS  ONE  SPOT  FOR  WHICH 
MY  SOUL  WILL  YEARN  " 

By  Myron  B.  Benton 

iHERE  is  one  spot  for  which  my 

soul  will  yearn, 
May  it  but  come  where   breeze 

and  sunlight  play, 
And  leaves  are  glad,  some  path 
ft  ^aaL,-^   /[   I  of  swift  return  ; 

T  ^f^F"-  I'M  A   waif  —  a  presence    borne  on 

friendly  ray  — 
Even  thus,  if  but  beneath  the  same  blue  sky  ! 
The  grazing  kine  not  then  will  see  me  cross 
The  pasture  slope  ;  the  swallows  will  not  shy, 
Nor  brooding  thrush ;  blithe  bees  the  flowers  will 
toss : 


329 

Not  the  faint  thistle  down  my  breath  may  charm. 

Ah,  me  !   But  I  shall  find  the  dear  ways  old, 

If  I  have  leave,  that  sheltered  valley  farm ; 

Its  climbing  woods,  its  spring,  the  meadow's  gold  ; 
The  creek-path,  dearest  to  my  boyhood's  feet  — 
Oh  God  !  is  there  another  world  so  sweet  ? 

JOY-MONTH 

By  David  Atwood  H^asson 

H,  hark  to    the   brown    thrush  ! 

hear  how  he  sings  ! 
How  he  pours  the  dear  pain 

of  his  gladness  ! 
What    a    gush !    and    from  out 

what  golden  springs  ! 
What  a  rage  of    how  sweet 
madness ! 

And  golden  the  buttercup  blooms  by  the  way, 

A  song  of  the  joyous  ground  ; 
While  the  melody  rained  from  yonder  spray 

Is  a  blossom  in  fields  of  sound. 

How  glisten  the  eyes  of  the  happy  leaves  ! 

How  whispers  each  blade,  "  I  am  blest !  " 
Rosy  Heaven  his  lips  to  flowered  earth  gives, 

With  the  costliest  bliss  of  his  breast. 

Pour,  pour  of  the  wine  of  thy  heart,  O  Nature  ! 

By  cups  of  field  and  of  sky, 
By  the  brimming  soul  of  every  creature  !  — 

Joy-mad,  dear  Mother,  am  I. 


33° 
Tongues,  tongues  for   my  joy,  for  my  joy  !  more 


tongues ! — 


Oh,  thanks  to  the  thrush  on  the  tree, 
To  the  sky,  and  to  all  earth's  blooms  and  songs  ! 
They  utter  the  heart  in  me. 


NOVEMBER    IN   ENGLAND 

By  Thomas  Hood 

O  sun  —  no  moon  ! 
No  morn  —  no  noon  ! 
No  dawn — no  dusk — no  prop- 
er time  of  day  — 
No  sky  —  no  earthly  view  — 
No  distance  looking  blue  — 
No  road — no  street — no  "t'other 

side  the  way"  — 
No  end  to  any  u  Row  "  — 
No  indications  where  the  Crescents  go  — 
No  top  to  any  steeple  — 
No  recognitions  of  familiar  people  — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em  — 
No  knowing  'em! 

No  travelling  at  all  —  no  locomotion, 
No  inkling  of  the  way  —  no  notion  — 
u  No  go  "  —  by  land  or  ocean  — 
No  mail  —  no  post  — 
No  news  from  any  foreign  coast  — 
No  park  —  no  ring  —  no  afternoon  gentility  — 
No  company  —  no  nobility  — 


No  warmth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 
No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member  — 

No  shade,  no  shine,  no  butterflies,  no  bees, 

No  fruits,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds, 
November ! 


TO  AN   ALASKAN   GLACIER 

By   Charles  Keeler 

UT   of  the  cloud-world  sweeps 

thy  awful  form, 
Vast  frozen  river,  fostered  by  the 

storm 
Up  on  the  drear  peak's    snow-     / 

encumbered  crest, 
Thy  sides  deep  grinding  in  the 

mountain's  breast 
As  down  its  slopes  thou  ploughest  to  the  sea 
To  leap  into  thy  mother's  arms,  and  be 
There  cradled  into  nothingness.      How  slow, 
How  imperceptible,  thy  ceaseless  flow, 
As  one  with  an  eternity  unspent 
Wherein  to  round  thy  task  of  wonderment  ! 
Thy  strength  resistless  is  as  will  of  fate  ; 
The  granite  ground  to  sand  beneath  thy  weight, 
The  mountains  hollowed  out  with  furrows  deep, 
The  sculptured  peaks  that  totter  from  their  steep, 
All  bear  the  matchless  impress  of  thy  skill, 
Grim  mountain  hewer !      With  a  sudden  thrill 


332 

Great  bergs  crash  thunderously  beneath  the  tide, 
And,  slow  emerging,  o'er  the  waters  ride 
Like  boats  of  pearl  slow  floating  to  their  doom, 
Which,  fondly,  the  soft  lapping  waves  consume. 

I  walked  erstwhile  upon  thy  frozen  waves, 

And  heard  the  streams  amid  thy  ice-locked  caves  ; 

I  peered  down  thy  crevasses  blue  and  dim, 

Standing  in  awe  upon  the  dizzy  rim. 

Beyond  me  lay  the  inlet  still  and  blue, 

Behind,  the  mountains  loomed  upon  the  view 

Like  storm-wraiths  gathered  from  the  low-hung  sky. 

A  gust  of  wind  swept  past  with  heavy  sigh, 

And  lo  !   I  listened  to  the  ice-stream's  song 

Of  winter,  when  the  nights  grow  dark  and  long, 

And  bright  stars  flash  above  thy  fields  of  snow, 

The  cold  waste  sparkling  in  the  pallid  glow, 

Or,  when  the  storms   wail   round   thy  peaks   and 

spires, 

Playing  weird  notes  upon  thy  ice-wrought  lyres 
Until  the  shuddering  pinnacles,  astrain, 
Tumble  and  crash  amidst  the  seething  main. 
Years,  centuries  and  eons  thou  hast  known, 
Waxing  and  waning  in  the  wilds  alone, 
Hoar  mountain  sculptor,  shaper  of  the  earth  ! 
The  crystals  of  the  snow  which  gave  thee  birth, 
Renewing  still  thy  life,  are  o'er  thee  spread, 
And,  as  they  fall,  thou  quiverest  in  thy  bed, 
Stretching  thy  vastness  down  its  narrow  way 
And  roaring  like  a  god  in  fierce  dismay; 
Thus  prisoned,  eager  in  one  mighty  throe 
To  leap  into  the  sea  and  end  thy  woe  ! 


333 

SUMMER   DROUGHT 

By  J.  P.  Iroine 

HEN  winter  came  the  land  was 

lean  and  sere  : 
There  fell   no   snow,  and   oft 

from  wild  and  field 
In  famished   tameness  came  the 
drooping  deer, 

And   licked   the   waste    about 

the  troughs  congealed. 

And  though  at  spring  we  ploughed  and  proffered 
seed, 

It  lay  ungermed,  a  pillage  for  the  birds  : 
And  unto  one  low  dam,  in  urgent  need, 

We  daily  drove  the  suppliant,  lowing  herds. 

But  now  the  fields  to  barren  waste  have  run, 
The  dam  a  pool  of  oozing  greenery  lies, 

Where  knots  of  gnats  hang  reeling  in  the  sun 
Till  early  dusk,  when  tilt  the  dragon-flies. 

All  night  the  craw-fish  deepens  out  her  wells, 
As   shows    the    clay    that    freshly    curbs    them 
round ; 

And  many  a  random  upheaved  tunnel  tells 

Where  ran  the  mole  across  the  fallow  ground. 

But  ah  !  the  stone-dumb  dullness  of  the  dawn, 
When  e'en  the  cocks  too  listless  are  to  crow, 

And  lies  the  world  as  from  all  life  withdrawn, 
Unheeding  and  outworn  and  swooning  low  ! 


334 

There  is  no  dew  on  any  greenness  shed, 

The    hard-baked    earth    is   cracked    across    the 

walks  ; 
The  very  burrs  in  stunted  clumps  are  dead 

And    mullein    leaves     drop    withered  from  the 
stalks. 

Yet,  ere  the  noon,  as  brass  the  heaven  turns, 
The  cruel  sun  smites  with  unerring  aim, 

The  sight  and  touch  of  all  things  blinds  and  burns, 
And  bare,  hot  hills  seem  shimmering  into  flame ! 

On  either  side  the  shoe-deep  dusted  lane 

The  meagre  wisps  of  fennel  scorch  to  wire ; 

Slow  lags  a  team  that  drags  an  empty  wain, 
And,  creaking  dry,  a  wheel  runs  off  its  tire. 

No  flock  upon  the  naked  pasture  feeds, 

The  sheep  with  prone  heads  huddle    near  the 
fence  ; 

A  gust  runs  crackling  through  the  brittle  weeds, 
And  then  the  heat  still  waxes  more  intense. 

On  outspread  wings  a  hawk,  far  poised  on  high, 
Quick  swooping  screams,  and  then  is  heard  no 
more : 

The  strident  shrilling  of  a  locust  nigh 

Breaks  forth,  and  dies  in  silence  as  before. 

No  transient  cloud  o'erskims  with  flakes  of  shade 
The  landscape  hazed  in  dizzy  gleams  of  heat ; 

A  dove's  wing  glances  like  a  parried  blade, 
And  western  walls  the  beams  in  torrents  beat. 


335 

So  burning  low,  and  lower  still  the  sun, 

In  fierce  white  fervor,  sinks  anon  from  sight, 

And  so  the  dread,  despairing  day  is  done, 
And  dumbly  broods  again  the  haggard  night. 


INDIAN   SUMMER 

By  J.  P.  Irvine 

T  last  the   toil  encumbered  days 

are  over, 
And  airs  of  noon  are  mellow 

as  the  morn  ; 
The  blooms  are  brown  upon  the 

seeding  clover, 

And     brown     the     silks    that 
plume  the  ripening  corn. 

All  sounds  are  hushed  of  reaping  and  of  mowing  ; 

The  winds  are  low  ;  the  waters  lie  uncurled  ; 
Nor  thistle-down  nor  gossamer  is  flowing, 

So  lulPd  in  languid  indolence  the  world. 

And  mute  the  farms  along  the  purple  valley, 

The  full  barns  muffled  to  the  beams  with  sheaves; 

You  hear  no  more  the  noisy  rout  and  rally 
Amongst  the  tenant-masons  of  the  eaves. 

A  single  quail,  upstarting  from  the  stubble, 
Darts  whirring  past  and  quick  alighting  down 

Is  lost,  as  breaks  and  disappears  a  bubble, 
Amid  the  covert  of  the  leafy  brown. 


336 

The  upland  glades  are  flecked  afar  in  dapples 
By  flocks  of  lambs  a-gambol  from  the  fold  ; 

The  orchards  bend  beneath  the  weight  of  apples, 
And  groves  are  bright  in  crimson  and  in  gold. 

But  hark  !   I  hear  the  pheasant's  muffled  drumming, 
The  water  murmur  from  a  distant  dell ; 

A  drowsy  bee  in  mazy  tangles  humming ; 
The  far,  faint  tinkling  tenor  of  a  bell. 

And  now  from  yonder  beech  trunk  sheer  and  sterile, 
The  rat-tat-tat  of  the  wood-pecker's  bill ; 

The  sharp  staccato  barking  of  a  squirrel, 
A  dropping  nut,  and  all  again  is  still. 

AN   AUGUST    AFTERNOON 

On  the  Farm 
By  J.  P.  Irvine 

|N  stifling  mows  the  men  became 

oppressed, 
And      hastened     forth      hard 

breathing  and  o'ercome ; 
The  hatching  hen  stood  panting 

in  her  nest, 

The   sick    earth    swooned   in 
languor  and  was  dumb. 

The  dust-dull'd  crickets  lay  in  heedless  ease 
Of  trampling  hoofs  along  the  beaten  drives, 

And  from  the  fields  the  home-returning  bees, 
Limp  wing'd  and  tired,  lit  short  before  their  hives. 


337 

The  drooping  dog  moped  aimlessly  around  ; 

Lop'd  down,  got  up,  snapt  at  the  gnats  ;   in  pits 
Knee  deep,  the  tethered  horses  stamped  the  ground, 

And  switched  at  bot-flies  dabbing  yellow  nits. 

With  heads  held  prone  the  sheep  in  huddles  stood 
Through  fear  of  gads  —  the  lambs,  too,  ceased 
to  romp  ; 

The  cows  were  wise  to  seek  the  covert  wood, 
Or  belly  deep  stand  hidden  in  the  swamp. 

So  dragged  the  day,  but  when  the  dusk  grew  deep 
The  stagnant  heat  increased ;  we  lit  no  light, 

But  sat  out-doors,  too  faint  and  sick  for  sleep ; 
Such  was  the  stupor  of  that  August  night. 


IN   MAY 

(1870) 
By  Robert  Kelly  Weeks 

OW  that  the  green   hill-side  has 

quite 

Forgot   that  it  was    ever   white, 
With  quivering    grasses  clothed 

upon  ; 

And  dandelions  invite  the  sun ; 
And    columbines    have  found  a 

way 

To  overcome  the  hard  and  gray 
Old  rocks  that  also  feel  the  spring  ; 
And  birds  make  love  and  swing  and  sing 


On  boughs  which  were  so  bare  of  late 
And  bees  become  importunate ; 
And  butterflies  are  quite  at  ease 
Upon  the  well-contented  breeze, 
Which  only  is  enough  to  make 
A  shadowy  laughter  on  the  lake ; 
And  all  the  clouds,  that  here  and  there 
Are  floating,  melting  in  the  air, 
Are  such  as  beautify  the  blue  ;  — 
Now  what  is  worthier,  May,  than  you 
Of  all  my  praise,  of  all  my  love, 
Except  whom  you  remind  me  of? 


INDEX  BY  AUTHORS 

(The  abbreviations  Am.  and  Brit,  are  used  respectively 
to  indicate  the  American  and  British  authors.) 


BBEY,    Henry  (Am.):    Trailing 
Arbutus,    192;     Winter    Days, 

193- 
Akers,  Elizabeth  (Am.)  :     Snow, 

248  ;     The     Miracle  -  Workers, 
246  ;    The  Pipe  of  Pan,  244. 
Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey    (Am.)  : 
A  Touch  of  Nature,  164;   Sea  Longings,  165; 
The  Bluebird,  1 66. 

Ames,  Mary  Clemmer  (Am.)  :  Nantasket,  202. 
Anonymous  (Am.):    To  the  Cat-Bird,  172. 
Arnold,  Matthew  (Brit.)  :  Dover  Beach,  1 8 1  ;   Phi- 
lomela, 191  ;  Poor  Matthias,  183  ;  The  Depart- 
ure of  the  Cuckoo,  190. 
Averill,  Anna  Boynton  (Am.)  :  Birch  Stream,  293. 

BENTON,  Joel  (Am.)  :  December,  225. 
Benton,  Myron  B.  (Am.)  :  Midsummer  In- 
vitation,  327;    "There   is    One    Spot  for 
Which  my  Soul  will  Team,"  328. 
Blake,  William  (Brit.)  :    The  Tiger,  288. 
Bolles,  Frank  (Am.)  :    The  Oven-Bird,  307. 

339 


340 


Boyle,  Sarah    Roberts   (Am.) :     The   Voice  of  the 

Grass,  321. 

Bradley,  Mary  Emily  (Am.) :  A  Chrysalis,  320. 
Browning,  Robert   (Brit.) :    By   the   Fireside,   54 ; 

Home-Thoughts  from  A 'broad,  53  ;   Pippa  Passes, 

55- 

Bryant,  William   Cullen  (Am.) :    An  Invitation  to 

the  Country,  119;   June,  115  ;    The  Gladness  of 
Nature,  1 2O  ;    The  Path,  112;    The  Planting  of 
the  Apple-Tree,  109  ;    To  a  Waterfowl,  117. 
Buchanan,  Robert  (Brit.)  :  Spring  Song  in  the  City, 

45- 

Burns,  Robert  (Brit.) :  Afton  Water,  38 ;  "Again 
Rejoicing  Nature  Sees,"  40 ;  Bonnie  Doon,  44  ; 
On  Seeing  a  Wounded  Hare,  39 ;  To  a  Moun- 
tain Daisy,  42  ;  To  a  Mouse,  36. 

Burroughs,  John  (Am.) :  Golden  Crown  Sparrow 
of  Alaska,  79;  To  the  Lapland  Longspur,  80. 

Byron,  George  Noel  Gordon,  Lord  (Brit.)  :  Night, 
24;  Solitude,  23. 


CALDWELL,  William  W.  (Am.)  :  Robin's 
Come,  194. 
Campbell,    Thomas    (Brit.);     The    Beech 
Tree's  Petition,  22  ;    To  the  Rainbow,  20. 
Carman,  Bliss  (Brit.) :    A  More  Ancient  Mariner, 

71 ;    The  Joys  of  the  Road,  68. 
Clarke,  Edna  Proctor  (Am.)  :    The  Humming-Bird^ 

170. 
Cleaveland,  C.  L.  (Am.):  November •,  169. 


341 


Cone,  Helen  Gray  (Am.) :    The  Dandelions,  304. 
Cooke,  Rose  Terry  (Am.) :    The  Snow-Filled  Nest, 

3°9- 
"  Cornwall,   Barry "   (See  Procter,   Bryan    Waller) 

(Brit.). 

Cotton,  Charles  (Brit.):  The  Retirement,  I. 
Cowper  William  (Brit.)  :  The  Cricket,  283. 
Craik,  Dinah  Maria  Mulock  (Brit.)  :  Green  Things 

Growing,  205. 

DANA,   Richard    H.    (Am.):     The   Little 
Beach-Bird,  278. 
Darmesteter,  Mrs.  (Brit.),  Darwinism,  32. 
De  Kay,  Charles  (Am.):  Peace,  301. 
Domett,  Alfred  (Brit.):  A  Glee  for  Winter,  52. 


E 


MERSON,  Ralph  Waldo  (Am.)  :  Song  of 
Nature,  64  ;  The  Humble-Bee,  62  ;  Wal- 
deinsamkeit,  60. 


FWCETT,  Edgar  (Am.);  A  Toad,  213; 
A  White  Camellia,  214;  To  an  Oriole, 
213. 

F.,  E.  S.  (Am.):  Blood-Root,  177. 
Flagg,    Wilson    (Am.):      The    O' Lincoln  Family, 

290. 

Forsyth,  Mary  Isabella  (Am.) :    The  English  Spar- 
row, 233. 
Freneau,  Philip  (Am.) :   To  a  Katy-Did^  324. 


342 


GALLAGHER,  William  D.  (Am.):  August, 
228  ;    The  Cardinal  Bird,  230. 
Garland,  Hamlin  (Am.)  :   Line  Up,  Brave 
Boys,  298  ;  The  Herald  Crane,  297  ;    The 
Toil  of  the  Trail,  300;    The  Whistling  Marmot, 
299. 

Gilder,  Richard  Watson  (Am.) :  A  Song  of  Early 
Autumn,  223;  Dawn,  22O;  "  Great  Nature  is 
an  Army  Gay,"  224 ;  The  Voice  of  the  Pine, 
221. 


HARTE,    Francis    Bret  (Am.):    Grizzly, 
197  ;   To  a  Sea- Bird,  196. 
Herrick,  Robert  (Brit.):   To  Blossoms,  n. 
Heywood,  Thomas  (Brit.) .  Pack  Clouds 
Away,  10. 

Hill,  Thomas  (Am.):  The  Bobolink,  153. 
Hogg,  James  (Brit.)  :    The  Lark,  280. 
Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell  (Am.)  :  Midsummer,  106  ; 

My  Aviary,  102 ;    To  an  Insect,  107. 
Hood,    Thomas    (Brit.) :     November   in    England, 

33°- 

Howells,  William  Dean  (Am.)  :    The  Song  the  Oriole 

Sings,  74. 
Howitt,  Mary  (Brit.)  :   Cornfields,  206. 


I 


RVINE,  J.  P.  (Am.)  :    An  August  Afternoon, 
336;  Indian  Summer,  335  ;  Summer  Drougkt, 


343 


JEWETT,  Sarah  Orne  (Am.)  :  A  Caged  Bird, 
175- 
Johnson,    Robert    Underwood   (Am.)  :     The 
Wistful  Days,  310;    To   the    Housatonic   at 
Stockbridge,  311. 
Jonson,  Ben  (Brit.) :  Hymn  to  Cynthia,  7. 


KEATS,  John  (Brit.)  :    Ode  to  Autumn,  235  ; 
Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  237. 
Keeler,   Charles    (Am.):    To    an   Alaskan 

Glacier,  331. 

Kennedy,  William  Sloane  (Am.)  :   Shadows,  243. 
Kimball,  Harriet  McEwen  (Am.) :    The   Crickets, 

3°3- 

King,    Harriet    Eleanor    Hamilton    (Brit.) :     The 

Crocus,  34. 
Kingsley,  Charles  (Brit.)  :   Song  of  the  River,  167. 


LAIGHTON,   Albert    (Am.):     Under   the 
Leaves,  2OI. 
Lamb,  Charles  (Brit.):    The  Housekeeper, 

II. 

Lang,  Andrew  (Brit.) :   Scythe  Song,  33. 
Larcom,  Lucy  (Am.)  :  A  Strip  of  Blue,  316. 
Lathrop,  George  Parsons  (Am.) :   The  Song- Spar- 
row, 295. 

Logan,  John  (Brit.) :   To  the  Cuckoo,  289. 
Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth  (Am.)  :   Daybreak, 
95;  Rain  in  Summer,  96;    The  Bridge,  100. 


344 


Longfellow,  Samuel  (Am.)  :  April,  301 ;  November ', 

302. 
Lowell,  James  Russell  (Am.) :    The  Blglow  Papers, 

No.  6>>  93  5   To  the  Dandelion,  91. 


MACCARTHY,  Denis  Florence  (Brit.): 
The  Irish  Wolf-Hound,  56. 
Macdonald,  Hugh  (Brit.)  :  The  Birds  of 

Scotland,  211. 
MacKellar,  Thomas  (Am.)  :   To  a  Troublesome  Fly, 

234- 
Markham,  Edwin  (Am.):    Little   Brothers   of  the 

Ground,  313;    The  Flying  Mist,  314. 
Marvell,  Andrew  (Brit.)  :   Thoughts  In  a  Garden, 

240. 
Mifflin,  Lloyd   (Am.)  :    April,  76 ;    Autumn,  78 ; 

Summer,  77. 
Milton,  John  (Brit.):    Part  of  II  Penseroso,  281; 

Part  of  U  Allegro,  282. 

Montgomery,  James  (Brit.)  :   The  Daisy,  287. 
Morris,  Harrison  Smith  (Am.)  :    The  Lonely  Bird, 

323- 

Murray,  George  (Brit.) :   To  a  Humming-Bird  In  a 
Garden,  47. 


N 


ORRIS,  J.  (Brit.):    Hymn  to  Darknes^ 


o 


345 


BERHOLTZER,  Mrs.  Sarah  L.  (Am.)- 
Come  for  Arbutus,  303. 


PERCIVAL,  James  Gates  (Am.)  :    To  Seneca 
Lake,  285. 
"  Percy,  Florence  "  (See  Allen,  Mrs.  Eliza- 
beth Akers)  (Am.). 
Perry,  Nora  (Am.)  :  In  June,  226. 
Piatt,  Sarah  (Am.)      A  Word  with  a  Skylark  (A 

Caprice  of  Homesickness),  157. 
Pope,  Alexander  (Brit.)  :    Ode  on  Solitude,  6. 
Procter,  Bryan  Waller  (Brit.)  :    The  Owl,  31;   The 
Sea,  29 ;   The  Stormy  Petrel,  28. 

READ,   Thomas    Buchanan    (Am.):     The 
Closing  Scene,  275. 
Roberts,  Charles  G.  D.  (Brit.) :  Autoch- 
thon, 57;    The  Flight  of  the   Geese,  60 ; 
The  Frosted  Pane,  57  ;    The  Hawkbit,  59. 
Roberts,  Sarah  (See  Boyle,  Sarah  Roberts)  (Am.). 
Robinson,   A.   Mary    F.   (See  Darmesteter,  Mrs.) 
(Brit.). 


s 


HAKESPEARE,  William  (Brit.):  Dover 
Cliffs,  27;  Moonlight,  26;  Sonnet,  25; 
Flowers,  27. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe  (Brit.):    The  Cloud, 
12;    The  Invitation,  18;    The  Recollection,  15. 


346 


Sherman,  Frank  Dempster  (Am.) :  Footprints  in  the 

Snow,  171. 
Sprague,  Charles  (Am.)  :    The  Winged  Worshippers, 

292. 
Stedman,    Edmund    Clarence   (Am.)  :    Seeking  the 

May- Flower,    199;     What    the    Winds    Bring, 

2O  I. 
Stoddard,  Charles  Warren  (Am.):  Albatross,  318. 

TABB,  John  Banister  (Am.)  :  The  Hum- 
ming-Bird, 215;  The  Water- Lily,  216. 
Tennyson,  Alfred  (Brit.):  A  Farewell, 
253  ;  Break,  Break,  Break,  254  ;  Early 
Spring,  258  ;  April  Days,  257  ;  Autumn,  255  : 
Spring,  260 ;  The  Brook,  249  ;  The  Shell,  261  ; 
The  Blackbird,  252;  The  Eagle,  254;  The 
Throstle,  256;  The  Dragon-Fly,  251. 

Tennyson,  Frederick  (Brit.)  :    The  Skylark,  49. 

Thaxter,  Celia  (Am.)  :  August,  208  ;  The  Sand- 
piper, 20 o, ;  Wild  Geese,  208. 

Thomas,  Edith  M.  (Am.):  The  Grasshopper,  156; 
The  Vesper- Sparrow,  155. 

Thompson,  Maurice  (Am.)  :  In  the  Haunts  of  Bass 
and  Bream,  158. 

Thoreau,  Henry  David  (Am.)  :  Mist,  280  ;  Smoke, 
279. 

Timrod,  Henry  (Am.)  :   Elusive  Nature,  326. 

Townley,  Mary  (Am.):    The  Rose  in  October,  1 68. 

Trowbridge,  John  Townsend  (Am.) :  The  Cup, 
82  ;  The  Pewee,  87  ;  Trouting,  85. 


V 


347 


AN  DYKE,  Henry  (Am.):   An  Angler's 

Wish,  21 8;    The  Song- Sparrow,  2 1 6. 
Very,  Jones  (Am.)  :  Nature,  198. 


WARTON,  Thomas  (Brit.)  :   Retirement 
(Inscription  in  a  Hermitage),  8. 
Wasson,  David  Atwood  (Am.)  :   Joy- 
Month,  329. 

Weeks,  Robert  Kelly  (Am.)  :  In  May,  337. 
Wesley,  Charles  (Brit.) :    For  One  Retired  into  the 

Country,  4. 
West,  A.  (Am.):    The    White-Throated  Sparrow, 

174. 
White,  Joseph  Blanco  (Brit.)  :   Night  and  Death, 

286. 
Whitman,  Walt  (Am.)  :   Bare-Bosom' d  Night,  267  ; 

"7  am  an  Acme  of  Things  Accomplished"  262 ; 

"  Oxen  that  Rattle  the   Yoke  and  Chain"  266 ; 

The  Microcosm,  264  ;  You  Sea,  268  ;  "  There  Was 

a  Child  Went  Forth"  272;    This  Compost,  269. 
Whittier,  John  Greenleaf  (Am.)  :  Among  the  Hills, 

141;     Snow-Bound,   144;     The   Barefoot  Boy, 

150. 
Wilde,  Richard  Henry  (Am.)  :     To  the  Mocking- 

Bird,  319. 
Wilson,   Robert    Burns    (Am.)  :     The    Passing   of 

March,  177  ;  "When  in  the  Night  we  Wake  and 

Hear  the  Rain,"  178. 
Woodworth,  Mrs.  Nelly  Hart  (Am.) :   The  Hermit 

Thrush )  327. 


348 


Wordsworth,  William  (Brit.)  :  A  Night  Piece,  131 ; 
Daffodils,  138;  Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring, 
134;  "My  Heart  Leaps  Up  When  I  Behold" 
139  ;  The  Nightingale,  126  ;  "  The  World  is  Too 
Much  With  Us,"  139 ;  There  Was  a  Boy,  135 ; 
"  Three  Tears  She  Grew  in  Sun  and  Shower" 
124;  Tintern  Abbey,  128  ;  To  a  Butterfly,  140  ; 
To  a  Skylark,  127;  To  my  Sister,  132;  To  the 
Cuckoo,  129;  To  the  Small  Celandine,*  1 2 1 ; 
"Up!  Up!  My  Friend  and  <%uit  Tour  Books" 
I36. 

*  Common  Pilewort. 


BIRD   POEMS 

PAGE 

CAGED    Bird.      By    Sarah 

Orne  Jewett  175 

Albatross.     By  Charles  War- 
ren Stoddard  318 
A  Word  with  a  Skylark.     By 

Sarah  Piatt  157 

Golden    Crown    Sparrow    of 
Alaska.   By  John  Burroughs  79 

II  Penseroso,  Part  of.   By  John  Milton  281 

L'Allegro,  Part  of.   By  John  Milton  282 

My  Aviary.   By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  102 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale.   By  John  Keats  237 

Pack  Clouds  Away.  By    Thomas  Heywood  10 

Philomela.   By  Matthew  Arnold  191 

Poor  Matthias.   By  Matthew  Arnold  183 

Robin's  Come!  By  William  W.  Caldwell  194 
The  Birds  of  Scotland.  By  Hugh  Macdonald  2 1 1 
The  Blackbird.  By  Alfred  Tennyson  252 

The  Bluebird.   By  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  166 

The  Bobolink.   By  Thomas  Hill  153 

The  Cardinal  Bird.  By  William  D.  Gallagher  230 
The  Departure  of  the  Cuckoo.  (From  Thyr- 

sis.)   By  Matthew  Arnold  190 

The  English  Sparrow.  By  Mary  Isabella  Forsyth  233 
The  Flight  of  the  Geese.  By  Charles  G.  D. 

Roberts  60 

340 


350 


The  Herald  Crane.   By  Ham/in  Gar land  297 

The    Hermit   Thrush.   By    Mrs.  Nelly   Hart 

Woodworth  327 

The  Humming-Bird.  By  Ednah  Proctor  Clarke  170 
The  Humming-Bird.  By  John  Banister  Tabb  215 
The  Lark.  By  James  Hogg  280 

The  Little  Beach-Bird.  By  Richard  H.  Dana  278 
The  Lonely  Bird.  By  Harrison  Smith  Morris  323 
The  Nightingale.  By  William  Wordsworth  126 
The  O'Lincoln  Family.  By  Wilson  Flagg  290 
The  Oven-Bird.  By  Frank  Bolles  307 

The  Owl.   By  Bryan  Waller  Procter  ("  Barry 

Cornwall"}  31 

The  Pewee.  By  John  Townsend  Trowbridge  87 
The  Sandpiper.  By  Celia  Thaxter  209 

The  Skylark.   By  Frederick  Tennyson  49 

The  Snow-Filled  Nest.  By  Rose  Terry  Cooke  309 
The  Song-Sparrow.  By  George  Parsons  Lathrop  295 
The  Song-Sparrow.  By  Henry  van  Dyke  216 

The  Song  the  Oriole  Sings.   By  William  Dean 

How  ells  74 

The  Stormy  Petrel.  By  Bryan  Waller  Proc- 
ter ("  Barry  Cornwall ")  28 
The  Throstle.  By  Alfred  Tennyson  256 
The  Vesper-Sparrow.  By  Edith  M.  Thomas  155 
The  White-Throated  Sparrow.  By  A.  West  1 74 
The  Winged  Worshippers.  By  Charles  Sprague  292 
To  a  Humming  Bird  in  a  Garden.  By  George 

Murray  47 

To  an  Oriole.   By  Edgar  Fawcett  213 

To  a  Sea-Bird.  By  Francis  Bret  Harte  196 


To  a  Sky-Lark.   By  William  Wordsworth  127 

To  a  Waterfowl.   By  William  Cullen  Bryant  117 

To  the  Cat-Bird.   Anonymous  172 

To  the  Cuckoo.   By  John  Logan  289 

To  the  Cuckoo.   By  William  Wordsworth  129 

To  the  Lapland  Longspur.   By  'John  Burroughs  80 
To  the    Mocking-Bird.     By    Richard  Henry 

Wilde  319 

Wild  Geese.   By  Celia  Thaxter  208 


FLOWER    POEMS 

WHITE  Camellia.    By  Ed- 
gar Fawcett  214 
Blood-Root.  By  E.  S.  F.         177 
Come  for  Arbutus.    By  Mrs. 

Sara   L.  Oberholtzer         303 
Daffodils.  By  William  Words- 
worth 138 
Flowers.   (From  Winter's  Tale.)    By  William 

Shakespeare  27 

Seeking  the  Mayflower.   By  Edmund  Clarence 

Stedman  199 

The     Beech -Tree's    Petition.      By     Thomas 

Campbell  22 

The   Crocus.    By  Harriet    Eleanor   Hamilton 

King  34 

The  Daisy.   By  James  Montgomery  287 

The  Dandelions.   By  Helen  Gray  Cone  304 

The  Hawkbit.   By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  59 


352 


The  Planting  of  the  Apple-Tree.      By  Will- 
iam Cullen  Bryant  109 
The  Voice  of  the  Grass.   By   Sarah    Roberts 

Boyle  321 

The  Water-Lily.   By  John  Banister  Tabb          216 
To  a  Mountain  Daisy.   By  Robert  Burns  42 

To  Blossoms.   By  Robert  Herrick  n 

To  the  Dandelion.   By  Barnes  Russell  Lowell       91 
To  the  Small  Celandine.  By  William  Words- 
worth 121 
Trailing  Arbutus.   By  Henry  Abbey  192 

POEMS   OF  NATURE 

SPRING 

|GAIN       Rejoicing      Nature 

Sees."     By  Robert  Burns    40 
An  Angler's  Wish.  By  Henry 

van  Dyke  218 

An  Invitation  to  the  Coun- 
try. By  William  Cullen 
Bryant  119 

April.   By  Samuel  Longfellow  301 

April.   Ey  Lloyd  Mifflin  76 

April  Days.    By  Alfred  Tennyson  257 

A  Touch  of  Nature.   By  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrlch  164 
Early  Spring.   By  Alfred  Tennyson  258 

In  June.   By  Nora  Perry  226 

In  May.   By  Robert  Kelley  Weeks  337 

Joy- Month.   By  David  Atwood  Wasson  329 


353 


June.  By  William  Cullen  Bryant  115 

Lines  Written  in  Early  Spring.  By  William 

Wordsworth  134 

Spring.  By  Alfred  Tennyson  260 

Spring  Song  in  the  City.  By  Robert  Buchanan  45 
The  Biglow  Papers,  No.  6.  By  James  Russell 

Lowe/I  93 

The  Passing  of  March.  By  Robert  Burns  Wilson  177 
The  Wistful  Days.  By  Robert  Underwood 

"Johnson  310 

To  my  Sister.  By  William  Wordsworth  132 

Under  the  Leaves.  By  Alfred  Laighton  2OI 


SUMMER 

An  August  Afternoon.   By  J.  P.  Irvine  336 

August.  By  William  D.  Gallagher  228 

August.   By  Cell  a  Thaxter  208 
Green  Things    Growing.    By  Dinah  Maria 

Mulock  Craik  205 
Home   Thoughts    from   Abroad.    By   Robert 

Browning  53 
Indian  Summer.  By  J.  P.  Irvine  335 
Midsummer.  By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  106 
Midsummer  Invitation.  By  Myron  B.  Benton  327 
Rain  in  Summer.  By  Henry  Wadsworth  Long- 
fellow 96 
Summer.  By  Lloyd  Miff  in  77 
Summer  Drought.  By  J.  P.  Irvine  333 
Trouting.  By  John  Towns  end  Trowbridge  85 


354 


AUTUMN 

PAGE 

A  Song  of  Early  Autumn.   By  Richard  Watson 

Gilder  223 

Autumn.   By  Lloyd  Mifflin  78 

Autumn.   By  Alfred  Tennyson  255 

By  the  Fireside.   By  Robert  Browning  54 

Cornfields.  By  Mary  Howitt  206 

November.   By  C.  L.  Cleaveland  169 

November.   By  Samuel  Longfellow  302 

November  in  England.  By  Thomas  Hood  330 

Ode  to  Autumn.   By  John  Keats  235 
The    Closing    Scene.   By    Thomas    Buchanan 

Read  275 
The  Gladness  of  Nature.   By  William  Cullen 

Bryant  120 

The  Path.   By  William  Cullen  Bryant  1  12 

The  Rose  in  October.  By  Mary  Townley  168 


A  Glee  for  Winter.  By  Alfred  Domett  52 

December.   By  Joel  Bent  on  22$ 
Footprints  in  the  Snow.   By  Frank  Dempster 

Sherman  171 

Peace.   By  Charles  De  Kay  301 

Snow.   By  Elizabeth  Akers  248 

Snow-Bound.    By  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  144 

The  Frosted  Pane.   By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  57 

The  Invitation.    By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  1  8 

Winter  Days.    By  Henry  Abbey  193 


355 
GENERAL  NATURE 

PAGE 


CHRYSALIS.       By     Mary 

Emily  Bradley  320 

A  Farewell.    By  Alfred  Ten- 
nyson 253 
Afton     Water.      By     Robert 

Burns  38 

Among  the  Hills.    By  John 
Greenleaf  Whittier  141 

A  More  Ancient  Mariner.   By  Bliss  Carman        71 
A  Night  Piece.   By  William  Wordsworth  131 

A  Strip  of  Blue.   By  Lucy  Larcom  316 

A  Toad.   By  Edgar  Fawcett  213 

Autochthon.   By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts  57 

Bare-Bosom'd  Night.   By  Walt  Whitman          267 
Birch  Stream.   By  Anna  Boynton  Averill  293 

Bonnie  Doon.   By  Robert  Burns  44 

Break,  Break,  Break.   By  Alfred  Tennyson          254 
Darwinism.   By   Mrs.    Darmsteter  (A.  Mary 

F.  Robinson)  32 

Dawn.   By  Richard  Watson  Gilder  22O 

Daybreak.   By  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow       95 
Dover  Beach.   By  Matthew  Arnold  181 

Dover  Cliffs.   By  William  Shakespeare  27 

Elusive  Nature.   By  Henry  Timrod  326 

For  One  Retired  into  the  Country.   By  Charles 

Wesley  4 

"  Great  Nature  is  an  Army  Gay."   By  Richard 

Watson  Gilder  224 


356 


Grizzly.  By  Francis  Bret  Harte  197 

Hymn  to  Darkness.  By  J.  Norrls  305 

Hymn  to  Cynthia.  By  Ben  Jonson  7 

u  I  am  an  Acme  of  Things  Accomplished." 

By  Walt  Whitman  262 

In  the  Haunts  of  Bass  and  Bream.  By  Maurice 

Thompson  158 

Line  Up,  Brave  Boys.  By  Hamlin  Garland  298 
Little  Brothers  of  the  Ground.  By  Edwin  • 

Markbam  313 

Mist.  By  Henry  David  Thoreau  280 

Moonlight.  By  William  Shakespeare  26 

My  Heart  Leaps  up  when  I  Behold.  By 

William  Wordsworth  139 

Nantasket.  By  Mary  Clemmer  Ames  202 

Nature.  By  'Jones  Very  198 

Night.  (From  Childe  Harold.)  By  Lord  Byron  24 
Night  and  Death.  By  Joseph  Blanco  White  286 
Ode  on  Solitude.  By  Alexander  Pope  6 

On  Seeing  a  Wounded  Hare.  By  Robert  Burns  39 
"  Oxen  that  Rattle  the  Yoke  and  Chain."  By 

Walt  Whitman  266 

Pippa  Passes.  (From  Pippa  Passes.)  By  Robert 

Browning  55 

Retirement.  (Inscription  in  a  Hermitage.)  By 

Thomas  Warton  8 

Scythe  Song.  By  Andrew  Lang  33 

Sea  Longings.  By  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  165 

Shadows.  By  William  Sloane  Kennedy  243 

Smoke.  By  Henry  David  Thoreau  279 

Solitude.  (From  Childe  Harold.)  By  Lord  Byron  23 


357 


Song  of  Nature.   By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson          64 
Song  of  the  River.   By  Charles  Kingsley  167 

Sonnet.   By  William  Shakespeare  25 

The  Bare-foot  Boy.  By  John  Greenleaf  Whit- 
tier  150 
The  Bridge.  By  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  100 
The  Brook  :  By  Alfred  Tennyson  249 
The  Cloud.  By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  12 
The  Cricket.  By  William  Cowper  283 
The  Crickets.  By  Harriet  McEwen  Kimball  303 
The  Cup.  By  John  Towns  end  Trowbridge  82 
The  Dragon-Fly.  (From  The  Two  Voices.)  By 

Alfred  Tennyson  251 

The  Eagle.   Fragment.  By  Alfred  Tennyson       254 
The  Flying  Mist.   By  Edwin  Markham  314 

The  Grasshopper.  By  Edith  M.  Thomas  156 

The  Housekeeper.   By  Charles  Lamb  1 1 

The  Humble-Bee.  By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  62 
The  Irish  Wolf-Hound.  (From  The  Foray  of 
Con  O'Donnell.)  By  Denis  Florence  Mac- 
Car  thy  56 
The  Joys  of  the  Road.  By  Bliss  Carman  68 
The  Microcosm.  By  Walt  Whitman  264 
The  Miracle- Workers.  By  Elizabeth  Akers  246 
The  Pipe  of  Pan.  By  Elizabeth  Akers  244 
The  Recollection.  By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  15 
The  Retirement.  By  Charles  Cotton  \ 
"  There  is  a  Spot  for  which  my  Soul  Will 

Yearn."   By  Myron  B.  Benton  328 

There  Was  a  Boy.   By  William  Wordsworth     135 


358 


There  Was   a   Child  Went  Forth.   By    Walt 

Whitman  272 

The  Sea.  By  Bryan  Waller  Procter  ("  Barry 

Cornwall"}  29 

The  Shell.  (From  Maud.)  By  Alfred  Tennyson  261 
The  Throstle.  By  Alfred  Tennyson  256 

The  Tiger.  By  William  Blake  288 

The  Toil  of  the  Trail.  By  Hamlin  Garland  300 
The  Dragon-Fly.  By  Alfred  Tennyson  251 

The  Voice  of  the  Pine.  By  Richard  Watson 

Gilder  221 

The  Whistling  Marmot.  By  Hamlin  Garland  299 
"The  World  is  too  Much  with  Us."  By 

William  Wordsworth  139 

This  Compost.  By  Walt  Whitman  269 

Thoughts  in  a  Garden.  By  Andrew  Marvel!  240 
Three  Years  She  Grew  in  Sun  and  Shower. 

By  William  Wordsworth  124 

Tintern  Abbey.  By  William  Wordsworth  128 
To  a  Butterfly.  By  William  Wordsworth  140 

To  a  Caty-Did.  By  Philip  Freneau  324 

To  a  Mouse.  By  Robert  Burns  36 

To  an  Alaskan  Glacier.  By  Charles  Keeler  331 
To  an  Insect.  By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  107 
To  a  Troublesome  Fly.  By  Thomas  Mac Ke liar  234 
To  Seneca  Lake.  By  'James  Gates  Per  civ  al  285 
To  the  Housatonic  at  Stockbridge.  By  Robert 

Underwood  ^Johnson  311 

To  the  Rainbow.  By  Thomas  Campbell  20 

"  Up  !  Up  !  My  Friend,  and  Quit  your 

Books."   By  William  Wordsworth  136 


359 


PAGE 

Waldeinsamkeit.  By  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  60 
What  the  Winds  Bring.  By  Edmund  Clarence 

Stedman  2O I 

When  in  the  Night  We  Wake  and  Hear  the 

Rain.  By  Robert  Burns  Wilson  178 

You  Sea.  By  Walt  Whitman  268 


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